Mingi is very good at pretending he’s normal about the way you flirt with clients for tips, about the way you touch other people for a living. The problem starts when he realizes you might not belong to him at all, and suddenly he’s pinned against the wall confessing feelings far too big to keep inside anymore.
Pairing: sub!Mingi x TattooArtistFem!Reader
Tropes: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pinning, Confession under pressure, Soft masculinity, “He’s so big but so soft for her”.
Genre: Smut, Fluff, Romance.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, sub!mingi, sexual tension, sexual activity in a semi-public workspace, praise kink, dry humping, male orgasm, possessive thoughts, touch-starved behaviour, jealousy, vulnerability, emotional intensity, consensual power imbalance dynamics, mild choking, explicit language, alcohol, obsessive affection themes, emotional dependency but make it hot
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: this fic wouldn’t exist without a conversation with @darjeelinglemontea. it was just one thing she said, but it stuck with me and turned into this. thank you for that, i really hope you like where it ended up <3 also sorry for disappearing. i’m deep in a project and barely find time to write, but i needed to get this out anyway before vanishing again for a bit longer haha
masterlist
Your studio hums softly around you. Low music. Warm light. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine steady in your hand like a second heartbeat.
Outside, the street beyond the front windows is already dark, neon signs reflecting faintly against the glass. Your last appointment of the night stretched later than planned, the rest of the building long since quiet.
The smell of antiseptic and ink clings to the air, clean but intimate in a way most places never are. People let you touch them here. Let you get close enough to hear the change in their breathing, to feel tension beneath their skin before they even notice it themselves.
You’ve always liked that part.
“Breathe out,” you murmur.
Your client obeys immediately.
He’s stretched beneath the lamp, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm under your hand where you steady him by the waist. The tattoo curves along his ribs in clean black lines, and you lean closer to finish a careful stroke, thumb pressing lightly into his side to keep him still.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
“There,” you say softly. “Relax.”
“You say that every five minutes.”
“And somehow you still trust me.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dragging down to your mouth for a second too long. “Hard not to.”
You ignore that easily. You’ve heard versions of it a thousand times before. You wipe excess ink from his ribs.
His gaze flicks down to your hands again. “You always this nice to clients?”
“You’re paying me.”
“Could charge extra. I’d still come back.”
The bell above the studio door jingles softly. You don’t look up immediately. You know who walked in anyway. The heavy steps. The careless confidence of someone who’s been here enough times to stop asking permission for anything. The fridge opening.
“Beer tax,” Mingi calls from the back.
Your mouth curves before you can stop it.
“Get your own studio.”
“You’d miss me.”
You don’t answer. Because you would. Terribly.
Instead you lean closer to inspect the tattoo, fingers spreading against your client’s stomach as you stretch the skin carefully beneath the needle.
From behind you, the couch creaks, and you finally glance back at him.
Big hoodie. Work boots still on. Slouched deep into the couch cushions like he lives there. Watching you over the rim of the bottle with that lazy heavy-lidded stare that always does something unfortunate to your nervous system.
He comes here almost every night after work.
At first it had been accidental. Quick stops before heading home. Then takeout between appointments. Then sitting with you while you cleaned your station at midnight. Then coffee appearing beside your machine before you could ask for it.
Somewhere along the way, your studio started feeling wrong without him in it. Somewhere along the way, you started falling in love with him. Quietly. Stupidly.
Because Mingi is like this with everyone. Warm. Affectionate. Easy with touch. The kind of person who leans into you when he laughs and throws an arm around your shoulders without thinking. The kind of person who makes you feel chosen even when you probably aren’t.
So you buried it under routine and late-night beers and the hoodies he keeps leaving behind in your studio chair. Under the certainty that none of this would ever become more.
Your client shifts slightly beneath your hand. “You know,” he says, “if I met you somewhere else, I’d think you were flirting with me.”
You drag the needle into a clean line. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“I’m serious.” His smile turns crooked. “Soft voice. Hand on my waist. Eye contact. It’s confusing.”
“You came to a tattoo appointment.”
“Yeah, but you’re making it hard to stay professional.”
Mingi sets his beer down a little too hard against the table. You glance back automatically. He’s staring at the floor now, jaw tight for half a second before he notices you looking.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing.”
Your client looks between both of you once, then keeps talking. Unbothered. As if Mingi isn’t watching his every word.
“No, but seriously,” he says, looking at you again. “You’ve got dangerous energy.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yeah. Like you flirt for fun and ruin lives accidentally.”
You laugh softly through your nose.
But Mingi doesn’t. He should. He could. He usually does.
Instead his eyes keep lifting every time your hand settles against the client’s ribs. He goes quiet whenever the client calls you sweet. He keeps trying to insert himself into the conversation and failing to catch your attention the same way the client does.
And underneath all of it, something uncomfortable starts pulling tighter in his chest. Because the client gets your teasing. Your soft voice. Your hands all over him. And Mingi suddenly can’t stop wondering if that’s just who you are with everybody.
The rest of the session passes normally. Mostly. Your client keeps trying.
“You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”
You smooth the wrap carefully against his ribs. “I’ll think about you sometimes.”
“Damn. Sometimes?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
He laughs again, completely charmed by you in the way men always are.
And every time you touch him, Mingi notices. Not angry. Not even resentful. Just painfully aware. Like hearing your favorite song playing from somebody else’s car.
By the time the tattoo’s paid for, the studio feels strangely dense. Your client grabs his jacket, already backing toward the door.
“Same time next week?”
“We’ll see if you survive this one first.”
“I survived because you were gentle.”
Something shifts in Mingi’s jaw. The client notices immediately. A grin spreads slowly across his face.
“Tell your boyfriend thanks for the emotional support.”
The door closes before either of you can answer. Silence spills into the studio after him. The buzzing needle’s gone now. The music suddenly sounds louder. Slower.
From the corner of your eye, you catch Mingi pushing himself off the couch. He flips the sign on the front door to CLOSED before sliding the lock into place with a quiet click. Then he walks toward you.
You start cleaning your station, peeling off gloves and reaching for disinfectant.
Usually Mingi waits for you to drift back toward him naturally. Tonight he comes to you instead. You feel him before he speaks. Close enough that your body notices immediately.
“So,” you say lightly, wiping down the tattoo bed, “my boyfriend, huh?”
Mingi nearly chokes on his beer. You glance over just in time to catch the way his eyes widen above the bottle.
“He was joking,” he says too fast.
“You seem stressed for someone who’s definitely not my boyfriend.”
“I’m not stressed.”
You hum like you totally believe him.
Mingi reaches past you for the paper towels at the exact same moment you turn. His chest brushes your shoulder. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still, his hand lands automatically at your waist to steady you.
Your stomach flips immediately.
Neither of you moves. Then his thumb shifts once against your side before he pulls away like he only just realized where his hand is.
“You were very attentive with him,” he says casually.
You glance sideways at him.
“It’s my job.”
“Hm.”
Not convinced.
He leans against the edge of the bed while you keep cleaning, entirely too close for someone pretending to be normal right now. His knee knocks yours once.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.”
You snort softly. “You complain through every appointment.”
The answer slips out so easily you almost miss it. Almost.
Your mouth curls before you can stop it. That seems to make him realize he said it out loud, because he looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck while you reach for the petroleum jelly beside him.
His hand catches your wrist first. Lightly. You freeze.
“There,” he murmurs, thumb brushing across the inside of your wrist. “Ink.”
Your breath catches a little stupidly.
Mingi has always touched you easily. Like affection is something that lives in his hands naturally. This doesn’t feel careless. This feels slow. Aware.
His thumb drags once more before he lets go. Neither of you pulls away right away.
“That guy was flirting with you.”
You tilt your head. “You think?”
Mingi gives you a flat look.
“He literally asked for your number.”
“And?”
“And you flirt back.”
You blink. “I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
That lands heavier than it should. Like he’s been holding onto it longer than just tonight. You turn fully toward him, arms folding loosely.
“Oh my god,” you say slowly. “You’re jealous.”
“No.”
Immediate. Too immediate.
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You looked ready to bite through drywall because he called me dangerous.”
“That’s because he sounded ridiculous.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. Mingi’s eyes narrow slightly.
“There,” he says immediately. “That.”
“What?”
“That. You do that with everybody.”
“Do what?”
“That—” He gestures vaguely at you. “That thing.”
You stare at him for two full seconds. Then burst out laughing. Mingi groans instantly, dragging both hands down his face.
“Forget I said anything.”
“No, no,” you say, stepping closer. “I want details. What thing?”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not very boyfriend of you.”
His head snaps up so fast it almost makes you grin.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Maybe you are. Because suddenly everything from tonight rearranges itself perfectly in your head. The hovering. The watching. The way he kept interrupting. The way his eyes tracked your hands every time you touched the client.
And now this.
Song Mingi, who walks through life like nothing rattles him, suddenly can’t even look at you properly.
You should let him recover. You don’t. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices. Close enough that his attention snaps back to you immediately.
Now there’s barely space left between you.
Your hand lifts automatically toward the silver chain half-hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, the pendant twisted awkwardly into the fabric. You hook two fingers under it, easing it free, then straighten it against his chest. A small gesture. Almost domestic.
Your knuckles brush warm skin where the chain slips under his shirt.
Mingi freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to feel it.
“You’re touchy today,” he says softly.
“You started it.”
“Did I?”
“Mhm.”
Your fingers trail once along the chain before falling away. He watches every second of it. Like your hands are speaking a language he’s trying desperately to translate before it disappears.
A reluctant smile threatens at the corner of his mouth again, weaker now. Distracted by the fact you’re still standing too close.
“How many clients leave here thinking you’re into them?”
You blink once. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.” His jaw shifts faintly. “You look at people like that and then act surprised when they start falling in love with you.”
The sentence lands hard enough to knock the air slightly out of your lungs. Because he says it like an accusation. But underneath it, there’s something rawer. Softer. Something dangerously close to confession.
Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “It gets me better tips.”
“Right.” He glances away briefly. “Cool.” Then, quieter, “you flirt with me for free.”
Mingi’s eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the words leave his mouth and wants to grab them out of the air.
You blink once. Then tilt your head.
“…Do I?”
His ears turn red instantly. Actually red. And that’s new enough to make warmth bloom low in your stomach.
“I just mean,” he says quickly, taking half a step back, “you’re naturally like that. With everyone.”
“With everyone?”
“Yeah.”
You follow him when he steps back. Not enough to scare him. Just enough to make him realize you noticed.
“And you hate it?”
“No.” Too fast again. “I mean. Not hate. I just don’t like watching people flirt with you.”
The words slide warm and heavy into the room. Your heartbeat stumbles.
“Oh,” you say softly.
Mingi laughs once, humorless around the edges. “Yeah. Oh.”
Another step back from him. Another forward from you. The rhythm becomes almost absurd. Mingi retreating inch by inch while you slowly invade every space he gives up. Like he’s trying to survive this conversation and you’re trying to see how long until he breaks.
“I just think,” he says carefully, “most people don’t pay attention properly.”
“And you do.”
He hesitates. Then nods once. Small. Honest.
God.
The air suddenly feels too thick in your lungs.
“I know when you’re tired before you admit it,” he says quietly. “I know you pretend to hate sweet drinks but steal mine every time. I know you stop talking when something’s actually wrong.” His voice softens. “I know you hum when you tattoo.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Mingi keeps talking now like he can’t stop once he’s started.
“I know which clients piss you off before they even sit down. I know you clean your station twice when you’re stressed. I know you act meaner when you’re embarrassed.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself.
“And I know,” he says, finally looking at you again, “that you flirt with people when you want them comfortable. But it doesn’t feel the same when you do it to me.”
The room goes quiet. Not empty. Heavy. Your heart is beating so hard now it almost feels embarrassing.
“Mingi…”
He keeps backing up as he talks. You keep moving forward. Until eventually his back brushes the wall near the hallway leading to the back room. Trapped. His breath catches slightly.
He tries to shift forward again on instinct. He can’t. Because you’re still there. Not crowding. Just close enough that the space he needs is gone. He’s actually stuck. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Just physically there, pinned between the wall and you.
His breath turns shallow.
And suddenly you realize he’s actually nervous. Not teasing nervous. Not playful nervous. Real nervous. Mingi, who flirts with strangers like breathing and walks through every room like he belongs there, is looking at you like one wrong sentence might crack him open completely.
The realization sends warmth blooming painfully through your chest.
“I think about you too much,” he blurts suddenly.
The words hang there between you. Honest. Unpolished. Mingi winces immediately after saying them like he regrets how revealing they sound. But he keeps going anyway.
“Like… an embarrassing amount, actually.” His eyes flick away again. “At work. On my way home. I see things and think you’d laugh at them. Or hate them. Or make fun of them for being ugly.”
Your lips twitch helplessly.
“And then you flirt with random guys in front of me and suddenly I’m sitting on your couch acting like a fucking psycho because some dude called your hands magic.”
The laugh that escapes you is soft. Warm. Fond enough to make his face flush deeper.
“I’m serious,” he mutters weakly.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
That lands differently. The air shifts with it. Mingi swallows hard, debating whether to say the next thought out loud.
“I…” His voice catches briefly. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary. Like you’re enjoying this more than you should.
“You said that out loud,” you murmur.
Mingi groans again, covering his face briefly. “I know.”
The words leave him too easily. You see the exact moment he realizes that. Mingi drops his hands from his face slowly, looking at you now with this exhausted kind of honesty that almost hurts to look at.
“And the worst part,” he says more quietly, “is that I don’t even think it’s just a crush anymore.”
Something deep in your chest folds in on itself. Because his voice changes in that sentence. Softer. Heavier. Deeper. Like he didn’t mean to admit that part out loud.
“I think…” He exhales shakily, eyes finally lifting fully to yours. “I think somewhere along the way you became the first person I look for everywhere.”
The room goes completely still. No music. No neon outside. No buzzing lights overhead. Just him, and the way he’s looking at you like he’s just handed you something fragile with both hands and doesn’t know what you’re going to do with it.
You should say something. You should probably breathe. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices immediately.
His eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion first. Then something sharper, like he’s just realized the distance is disappearing.
Your hand catches lightly in the strings of his hoodie, fingers curling there as you guide him back into the wall behind him. Not rough. Just certain.
The soft thud of it stops his breath for half a second. His shoulders hit first. Then stillness.
Mingi blinks up at you, wide-eyed now. Caught off guard in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Like his brain is a beat behind his body catching up to the fact that he’s not moving anymore.
Trapped, but gently so.
The realization flashes across his face in real time:
Oh.
Your hand stays at his chest, twisting the soft fabric once around your fingers. And for the first time since he walked into your studio tonight, Mingi has absolutely nothing left to hide behind.
No jokes. No easy grin. Just wide dark eyes and a pulse hammering visibly in his throat beneath your touch.
He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the floor out from under him.
“…You have to stop looking at me like that.”
His voice barely survives the sentence. Low. Rough around the edges. Like every nerve in his body is pulled too tight beneath your hands.
You tilt your head slightly, still twisting the drawstring between your fingers.
“Like what?”
Mingi shuts his eyes for one dangerous second. Like he physically can’t withstand this much of you at once. When he opens them again, there’s only helpless honesty bleeding through every crack.
“You know,” he says quietly.
“Explain it to me.”
A shaky breath leaves him.
“It’s just…” His eyes flick helplessly between yours. “You keep looking at me like you already know every stupid thing I’m trying to say before I say it.”
Your pulse stumbles.
“And it’s making me insane because I had this whole speech in my head on the drive here and now you’re standing this close and I can’t remember any of it anymore.”
A laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth.
“Mingi—”
“No, wait.” He shakes his head quickly, words starting to tumble out faster now. “I’m serious. I was gonna do this properly. I had actual thoughts. Like coherent ones.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” His ears are pink now. “And now all I can think about is your mouth.”
That almost breaks you immediately. Mingi realizes what he just admitted and groans softly, the back of his head nearly knocking against the wall behind him.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m literally not.”
You smile despite the violent rhythm of your heartbeat. Because this is what you’ve wanted for so long. Not perfection. Not some polished confession. Just him. Big hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Voice falling apart mid-sentence. Looking at you like wanting you has become unbearable to carry alone.
His eyes snap back to yours instantly. And that does it.
Because Mingi has always looked enormous next to you. Broad shoulders. Height that swallows space when he walks into a room. But right now? Right now he’s melting under your fingertips. And the realization floods through you like heat.
You step even closer. Until his breath catches against your mouth. Until the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.
“I just…” His voice catches again. “I really like you.”
The sentence lands between you soft and devastating. And suddenly kissing him feels less like a decision and more like instinct. So you do. Fast. Sudden. Like finally giving in to gravity after fighting it for months.
Mingi freezes instantly. A sharp inhale catches hard in his chest the second your lips touch his. For half a heartbeat he doesn’t move at all. Like his brain genuinely stopped working. Then his hands hit your waist. Hard. Not rough. Desperate.
A wrecked sound tears out of him somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as he melts forward into you all at once, like the kiss physically knocked the strength out of his body.
You kiss him harder immediately. Months of swallowed wanting snapping loose at once.
Mingi tries to follow too fast, too overwhelmed already, and his head knocks lightly against the wall behind him with a soft curse breathed straight into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips.
You laugh softly into the kiss.
“You talk too much.”
“I was trying to…”
Another kiss cuts him off.
“I know.”
Mingi makes that sound again. That helpless little exhale that seems to punch straight through your ribs.
His hands finally settle at your hips, huge and shaky and warm through your clothes. Not controlling. Just holding on. Like he’s afraid this might disappear if he loosens his grip.
You pull back barely enough to look at him. His lips are flushed already, swollen and wet from your mouth. Eyes blown wide and dazed beneath messy dark hair.
He looks ruined. By a kiss.
The realization sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
“Mingi,” you whisper.
He visibly swallows. You brush your thumb against his jaw and he leans into it immediately without thinking. That almost undoes you.
“You don’t get it,” he says suddenly, breath uneven.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t when you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want to eat me alive.”
You smile slightly. “Maybe I do.”
His entire body reacts. A shiver runs through him so obvious you feel it beneath your palms.
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
Mingi’s forehead drops briefly against yours with a quiet groan, like even hearing you laugh right now is too much for him.
“You make everything worse,” he blurts suddenly.
You blink once. “Excuse me?”
“I mean good worse,” he says quickly. “Jesus Christ.”
His forehead bumps yours again, embarrassed.
“I’ll be fine all day. Totally normal. And then you smile at me once and suddenly I can’t think straight for hours.”
Your expression softens before you can stop it. Mingi notices immediately. You can see the exact second he realizes he said too much. But instead of retreating this time, he exhales shakily and lets his forehead stay pressed to yours.
“It’s not just this,” he says quietly. “It’s never just this with you.”
Your fingers loosen against his hoodie. The teasing drains out of you slowly, replaced by something warmer. Deeper. Aching.
“Then what is it?” you whisper.
Mingi’s eyes close. And for a moment he just breathes against you. Like he’s spent months holding this inside his chest and doesn’t know how to survive finally letting it out.
Then, barely above a murmur:
“It’s you.” Your heart stumbles violently. “It’s always been you.”
That one nearly steals your breath. You kiss him again before he can recover from saying it. Slower this time. Intentional. And he melts properly. No hesitation left now.
Mingi makes this quiet, wrecked sound into your mouth like the kiss physically knocks the air out of him. His hands tighten at your waist for a second before one of them slides higher, tentative at first. Like he’s not fully sure he’s allowed.
Your breath catches when his fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shirt at the small of your back. Warm skin against warm skin.
Mingi shudders immediately at the contact. You feel it happen under your hands.
The kiss breaks for half a second on his end, like his brain short-circuits from touching you there, but then he’s kissing you again instantly. Hungrier now. Still soft, still careful, but with this desperate edge underneath it that makes your pulse stumble hard.
His hand spreads slowly against your lower back beneath your shirt. Huge. Shaky. His fingertips drag upward inch by inch along your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.
The sensation sends heat straight through your chest.
“Mingi,” you breathe against his mouth.
That sound almost ruins him. A helpless exhale leaves him as his forehead bumps yours briefly before he kisses you again, deeper this time. Like hearing his name in your voice just dissolved whatever restraint he had left.
He keeps touching you carefully. That’s the dangerous part. Not greedy. Not rough. Just unbearably attentive. His fingertips trace lightly along your spine again and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. You feel him notice immediately in the way his breath stutters into the kiss.
“Oh my god,” he whispers against your lips, sounding dazed. “You felt that.”
You hate how much your stomach flips at the shaky little note of wonder in his voice.
“Keep kissing me,” you murmur.
He obeys instantly. Like reflex. Like he’d do anything you asked right now.
Every sound you make wrecks him further. You can feel it happening in real time.
The little breathless noises he keeps losing into your mouth. The way his hand trembles slightly against your back every time you kiss him deeper. Every time you pull back half an inch, Mingi follows immediately like instinct. Like distance physically hurts now that he’s had you this close.
Your hands slide fully into his hair now, tugging lightly at the roots.
A shaky sound breaks out of him immediately. You feel it against your tongue.
“Fuck,” he whispers again, ruined already.
One of his hands stays spread beneath your shirt, warm against the center of your back. The other slides up suddenly, almost clumsy with urgency, until his fingers bury into the hair at the back of your head.
Then he kisses you deeper. Not confident this time. Needy. Like he can’t get close enough anymore.
Your breath catches softly against his mouth. One of your hands stays tangled in his hair while the other drifts slowly down his arm, fingertips tracing the hard curve of his bicep beneath his hoodie sleeve before sliding higher again. Over his shoulder. Around the back of his neck. Up along his jaw.
Mingi visibly shivers when your thumb brushes beneath his ear. You feel his hand flex hard against your spine beneath your shirt. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants to touch you.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. His jaw. The warm skin beneath his ear.
Mingi’s head tips back against the wall automatically, exposing more of his throat with a helpless inhale that nearly destroys your composure entirely.
“There you are,” you murmur softly against his skin.
A wrecked sound leaves him immediately. Not even words anymore.
“You have any idea,” you breathe between kisses, “how hard this has been for me?”
Mingi goes still for half a second.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His lips are parted now. Eyes dark and blown wide beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.
“I mean it.” Your forehead presses against his again. “You take care of me without even thinking about it. You show up every single time. You make every room feel safer just by walking into it.”
His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking.
“And you have been driving me insane for months,” you confess softly. “So don’t stand here acting shocked because I finally kissed you.”
A wrecked laugh breaks out of him, immediately swallowed by another desperate kiss.
Your mouths keep finding each other between breaths, between half-finished sentences, between tiny overwhelmed sounds neither of you can hide anymore.
Everything feels overheated and too close and slightly off balance.
Then suddenly his kiss falters. Not because he pulls away. Because his body gives out first. A rough breath punches out of him against your mouth as his knees buckle unexpectedly beneath him.
“Mingi—”
Your hands grab for him immediately, trying to steady him, but he’s already sliding down the wall in one overwhelmed motion, dragging you with him instinctively. One hand catches hard at your waist while the other slips from your hair, fumbling clumsily for balance that clearly no longer exists.
“Wait, wait—”
A helpless laugh breaks out of him mid-collapse.
Your knees hit the hardwood on either side of his thighs as he lands heavily against the wall with a stunned exhale. Boots scraping awkwardly against the floorboards. Long limbs everywhere at once. Completely uncoordinated now.
For one messy second, neither of you knows where to put your bodies.
Then stillness.
Mingi’s chest heaves beneath you. Your brows knit immediately. Concern flashes through you first.
“Min?”
He shakes his head once quickly. Not hurt. Just catastrophically overwhelmed.
You can see it everywhere. The violent flush spread down his throat. The dazed look in his eyes. The way his hand is still under your shirt like he forgot it was there entirely.
And something about it feels almost surreal. Song Mingi. All sharp height and broad shoulders and effortless confidence. Reduced to this because you kissed him.
“…Did your legs just give out?”
“No,” he says immediately.
“They literally folded.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“So are you.”
The comeback would land better if he wasn’t staring up at you like he’s moments away from short-circuiting completely.
And then you feel it. The thick, hard press of him beneath the dark denim where you landed directly on his lap. Heavy and unmistakable, pressing right up between your legs through your clothes. Fuck. He feels as big as he carries himself, maybe bigger.
Your breath catches slightly. Mingi notices instantly. A mortified sound leaves him.
“Don’t start,” he says quickly.
You look back up slowly. “…Start what?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you realize things.”
Your mouth twitches immediately. His throat bobs hard.
You feel his fingers flex under your shirt instinctively before his nails drag lightly down your back in one slow scrape that makes your entire body jolt.
Fuck.
Mingi notices that too. His eyes darken immediately.
“I’m trying so hard to be normal right now,” he whispers.
The honesty of it nearly knocks the air out of you. Because he sounds wrecked. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just overwhelmed down to the bone. Still holding onto you like letting go would physically kill him.
Your eyes flick briefly to the way his hands are gripping you now. One spread hot against your spine beneath your shirt. The other tight on your waist. Strong enough to leave bruises. Shaking anyway.
Something hot curls low in your stomach at the sight. You can feel the strength coiled in him, the way he could easily lift you, pin you, take control if he wanted to. But he doesn't. He just looks up at you like he’s dying from how much he wants you.
When your hips shift experimentally against his, his reaction is immediate. A broken sound tears out of his throat as his head falls back toward the wall.
Your hand catches it before it can hit too hard, fingers tightening at the base of his neck as you cushion the impact instinctively.
Mingi melts instantly beneath your touch. His eyes squeeze shut for one second as your fingers tighten slightly in his hair. His grip spasms hard against your waist.
You bite your lip, suppressing your own sounds at the way he reacts so fast, so visibly, like every nerve in his body is wired directly into your hands.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, almost fascinated now. “I broke you.”
"Shut up," he breathes instantly, voice cracking.
Your laugh brushes warm against his mouth. Mingi’s eyes open again immediately, locking onto you like he’s afraid to miss a second of this.
And suddenly your concern dissolves into something hotter. Because he looks huge beneath you. Broad chest rising hard beneath his hoodie. Big hands gripping your body like he can’t stop himself. Thick thighs spread under yours. But none of that changes the fact he’s completely unraveling for you right now.
You tug his hair again, sharper this time. A wrecked sound punches out of him immediately.
“There he is,” you murmur softly. “My good boy.”
“Please don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I already can’t think.”
His fingers scratch lightly down your spine again, rougher now, and the sensation shoots heat straight through your stomach. You feel him twitch between your legs, the pressure catching your clit perfectly even through denim, and you have to swallow your own moan down before it escapes.
You grin instead. Then you kiss him again.
And whatever control he had left finally snaps. His hand fists suddenly in your hair while he tilts your head enough to deepen the kiss properly. Sloppier. Hungrier. He kisses you like he can’t get enough oxygen from anywhere else.
You drag your mouth down his jaw, over his throat, and Mingi immediately tips his head back for you again with a helpless sound, exposing more skin like instinct.
His head knocks toward the wall once more and you catch him again automatically, palm sliding behind his head while your other hand stays around his shoulders.
“There,” you murmur against his throat. “Careful.”
That almost makes him whine.
Your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse. Mingi’s hips jerk up involuntarily beneath you.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, hands tightening hard enough to drag you fully against him. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
He sounds terrified.
Your forehead brushes his gently, breath mingling between you while his entire body trembles underneath yours.
You kiss him again, slower now, while your hips move in tiny experimental rolls against his. Barely anything. Just enough friction to make his breathing fall apart completely.
He’s concentrating so hard you can see it in his face. Jaw clenched. Brows pinched slightly. Trying desperately not to cum on the spot from just this. He tries to slow you once, but he fails instantly when you press closer and another helpless, broken moan slips out of him into your mouth.
Then he’s moving too, dragging desperate open-mouthed kisses down your neck like he doesn’t know where to put all this wanting anymore.
His hands slide lower.
One stays beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your spine again and again like he’s addicted to the feeling of your skin.
The other grips your ass hard, dragging you tighter against him while his mouth presses sloppy kisses against your throat.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your skin, voice wrecked beyond repair. "So fucking pretty, baby, look at you—"
You’ve never seen him like this before. Never seen him stop trying to perform strength. And maybe that’s why this feels so intimate it almost scares you. Because he’s letting you see every vulnerable part without fighting to hide them anymore.
“Mingi,” you murmur softly.
He looks at you immediately.
“You okay?”
A quick nod. Then, quieter, “don’t stop.”
Your thumb smooths gently across his cheek.
“I won’t.”
And that’s what finally breaks him open. You see it happen in real time. The exact second the last bit of distance leaves his face. The exact second he realizes this isn’t temporary. That you’re not going to pull away from him tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.
His forehead drops against your shoulder with a shaky exhale.
Then he kisses you again. Different this time. Slower. Still hungry, but softer around the edges, like he can’t decide whether to devour you or memorize you.
His hands roam more boldly now, your back, your waist, your hips, your ass, gripping like he keeps remembering he’s allowed to touch you like this.
Your knees ache against the hardwood, but you barely notice once he plants his boots against the floor and pulls you flush against him with one helpless pull of his hips.
The breath leaves both of you at once.
Suddenly there’s nowhere your body ends without running into his. Broad chest. Heavy thighs. Strong arms boxing you in, without feeling threatening for even a second.
That’s the thing that gets you. How big he is and how careful he still is with you anyway.
Your hand slides to his throat experimentally, fingers loose against his pulse. Mingi's eyes go dark instantly, pupils blown wide. He swallows against your palm. Breath catching hard enough you feel it against your mouth.
"Yeah?" you whisper.
He nods, fast and desperate. "Yes. Please."
The smallest increase in pressure tears a wrecked sound out of him, his head falling back against the wall. The sound goes straight between your legs.
After that, everything loses rhythm. Kisses turning sloppy. Breathing uneven. His hands gripping harder whenever you get too close.
His hips are thrusting up, rolling, seeking more friction, and you feel yourself getting wet just from the desperation in his movements. He's so hard it must hurt, straining against the denim, and when you grind down against him, he cries out, hands gripping your ass to try to make you move faster.
He realizes what he's doing halfway through and stills himself with visible effort, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to regain control.
“Wait,” he breathes roughly. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
The honesty of it sends heat curling low in your stomach.
And you're barely doing anything, but the fact that he's this close from almost nothing makes you want to feel him fall apart because he wants you that much.
You kiss him again, deep and filthy, and keep your movements light. Just small, teasing rolls of your hips.
"So pretty," he whines, "baby, you're so—fuck. Seriously. You're so beautiful, so hot, I can't—I can’t even look at you properly right now."
“You’re so cute,” you breathe against his mouth.
Your fingers slide softly through his hair again, gentler this time, scratching lightly at his scalp while his eyes flutter half-shut.
“That’s my pretty boy,” you whisper softly. “Trying so hard to hold it together.”
His face flushes deeper immediately.
“You’re doing so good for me, Min.”
That one finally ruins him.
His hips twitch up again, needy and involuntary, and you feel the damp heat spreading at the front of his jeans where he’s already leaking from almost nothing. The realization barely has time to settle before his whole body jolts beneath you.
A strangled grunt punches out of him.
His grip clamps hard around you so suddenly it knocks your balance backward. You catch yourself instinctively, palm slapping against the wall beside his head before either of you can crack into it.
Mingi goes tense all at once, hips stuttering up into yours before he buries his face instantly into your neck with a sharp gasp, biting down hard enough to muffle the wrecked sound that follows.
And then he’s coming. Fast. Sudden. Hard enough his whole body shudders under you.
For the first time all night, he stops holding himself back. His arms lock tight around you as he pushes himself off the wall just enough to drag you with him, forcing you to tilt back slightly in his grip while he shakes through it. Like he physically needs you closer to survive it.
Your arms loop around his neck automatically to steady both of you, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers spreading against the back of his head to keep him tucked against your throat while he rides it out.
You feel every pulse through the denim between you. The hot spread of wetness. The helpless way his body betrayed him from almost nothing except your mouth, your weight against him, your hand at his throat.
His hips jerk once more before he folds inward completely, trembling against your neck, breathing ragged through clenched teeth while he tries desperately to hide how easily he came.
Then nothing. No movement. No sound except his uneven breathing against your skin.
You blink once, heat rushing straight through you at what just happened. At how little it took. At how desperately his body gave in the second you told him what he wanted to hear.
“Mingi.”
A horrified groan muffles straight into your neck.
You bite back a laugh instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just unbearably fond. Because this man. This man who walked in here trying to act normal about being in love with you is now actively attempting to fuse himself into your shoulder to avoid eye contact.
You shift slightly, trying to look at him. He follows immediately, burying himself deeper against your neck.
“Mingi,” you repeat, softer now, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Hey.”
A helpless smile spreads across your face as you press a kiss against his temple. He shudders under it instantly.
“Don’t look at me.”
That actually makes you laugh. Quiet and warm against his skin.
You coax his face back enough to look at him properly and nearly lose your mind all over again. Pink cheeks. Wet swollen lips. Eyes glassy and unfocused beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.
And beneath you, you can still feel him, hot and sticky and probably uncomfortable as hell in his jeans, but making no move to fix it because that would mean acknowledging it.
“Shit,” he says immediately, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
That catches you off guard enough your expression softens instantly. Because he sounds embarrassed, yeah, but underneath it there’s sincerity too. Like he’s genuinely worried he ruined something.
“I was trying really hard not to cum,” he blurts, words tumbling out faster now that they’ve started. “I was trying to hold it together and then you kept kissing me and calling me pretty and I just—”
He cuts himself off with another groan, dragging a hand over his burning face.
“Min.” You wait until his eyes finally flick back to yours. “Why are you apologizing?”
His brows pull together slightly.
“…Because I came in my jeans like a teenager?”
You laugh softly. “And?”
“And we were literally just making out.”
You grin despite yourself, pulse still throbbing low and hot between your legs. Because honestly? The more you think about it, the more turned on you get.
Your hips shift unconsciously against him and Mingi sucks in a sharp breath immediately, eyes squeezing shut.
“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, fascinated. “Still sensitive?”
“Please have mercy on me.”
The shaky way he says it sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You lean in until your noses brush.
“You know this was hot, right?”
“That was hot to you? You’re not making fun of me?” he asks carefully.
Your heart actually aches a little.
“Mingi.” You brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m trying very hard not to climb you again right now.”
“Oh my god.”
You kiss him again before he can get more embarrassed. Just a small one. Quick. Soft.
Mingi exhales into your mouth immediately, shoulders dropping another inch. There’s something dangerously addictive about it. Like the second you kissed him, his body decided hiding anything from you was impossible.
Your gaze drops again before you can stop it. Right between his legs. And right on cue, he shifts under you again and you feel it. Hard again. Twitching faintly beneath the damp denim. Still reacting to every little thing you do.
You pull back barely enough to look at him. “You’re kidding. You’re hard again?”
Mingi groans immediately. “Don’t say it out loud.”
Your laugh spills warm against his skin. He shivers hard at the sound. His hips shift unconsciously like he’s trying to relieve pressure and instantly regrets it when the denim drags against him.
Mingi must see something change in your face, because his breathing catches again immediately.
“Can you stop looking at me like you’re about to climb inside my ribcage?” he whispers.
You grin. “No.”
Mingi groans. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“…No. I really don’t.”
You laugh again and finally climb off his lap. Your knees ache faintly when you stand, but the sight in front of you almost takes you back out again.
Mingi looks ruined. Hoodie twisted crooked from your hands. Lips bitten red. Dark stain obvious across his jeans now no matter how he tries to angle himself away from it.
You bite your lip softly and hold your hand out toward him.
“C’mon.”
He blinks up at you. “…Where?”
Your smirk sharpens just slightly.
“You’re a mess,” you say, pointedly glancing at his lap before meeting his eyes again.
His face goes red all over again.
“Besides…” Your voice softens. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
Mingi goes completely still. Then his fingers tighten around yours hard enough to feel it.
“Cool,” he says faintly. “Awesome. Great. Yeah,” he says quietly, standing now, towering close enough to steal the air from your lungs again. “You have no idea what you just started.”
Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard at the look on his face now.
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
You open your mouth to answer, but Mingi kisses you first. Slow enough to distract you completely. Which is exactly why you don’t notice him crouching until the floor disappears beneath you.
“Wait, wha—”
A squeak bursts out of you as Mingi hooks an arm behind your legs and lifts you clean over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
“Mingi!”
He laughs against your startled noise as he playfully smacks your thigh before he starts walking toward the bathroom like carrying you around like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh, now you’re shy?” he teases.
Heat rushes straight to your face. “Put me down.”
“No.”
He punctuates it with another slap against your ass that makes you gasp so loudly he nearly folds over laughing himself.
“You were talking real brave five minutes ago.”
You bury your burning face against the back of his hoodie while his laugh rumbles warm through your legs.
“You let me recover. Rookie mistake,” he says, opening the bathroom door. “You’re gonna regret giving me confidence.”
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genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))
word count: 25k, deadass.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.
You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.
He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.
You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.
You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.
Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.
Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”
He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.
“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”
You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you.
By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.
You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.
Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.
A shoulder bumps into his.
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”
Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.
══════════════════
Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.
Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.
He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.
You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway?
“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”
He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”
“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”
“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”
Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.
“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”
He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”
“Yeah, you got it.”
Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.
“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”
A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.
“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”
The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.
“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”
“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”
You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”
Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.
“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”
“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”
Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”
Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.
“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”
You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.
══════════════════
True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.
At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.
You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.
It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.
You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”
You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”
“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”
Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”
“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”
Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”
Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”
The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.
“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.
“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”
You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.
“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”
Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”
“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”
“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”
“I’m serious, Mingi.”
“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”
You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.
As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.
Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?
══════════════════
You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.
At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”
You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”
He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”
The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.
“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”
For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for.
“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”
“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”
He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”
A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”
“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.
You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”
“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”
“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.
“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”
As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.
“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.
Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.
“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”
His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.
“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.
You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”
Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.
“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.
“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”
He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”
The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.
“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”
Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”
You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.
“You don’t have practice on Friday?”
“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”
As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”
You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.
“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”
“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”
He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”
You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”
“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.
His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.
You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.
As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.
Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”
“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”
Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”
You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.
“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.
As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.
══════════════════
The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.
You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”
“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.
“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”
Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”
You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”
His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”
The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.
“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.
Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.
“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.
His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“
“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.
The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.
“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”
He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”
“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”
You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.
“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”
“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”
You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”
“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”
“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”
His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”
“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”
“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”
The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.
“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”
“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.
“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”
The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.
══════════════════
As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.
“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.
“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.
He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.
The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?
You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.
His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.
You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.
“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.
“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”
You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.
I will, doll. Thank you.
On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.
When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.
“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.
“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.
“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”
You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”
“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.
“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”
You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”
“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”
When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.
“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.
“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”
He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”
“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”
“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”
“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”
His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”
“Mingi—”
“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”
You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope.
“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”
His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”
As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled.
Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.
“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”
“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”
You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”
“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”
“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.
“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”
══════════════════
On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.
“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”
You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”
Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.
“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”
You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.
“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.
She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”
You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.
You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.
“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.
You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.
You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.
You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.
He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.
You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.
The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”
You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.
The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.
“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”
You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”
“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.
“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.
“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.
“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.
You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”
“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”
The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.
“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”
Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”
“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.
“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”
You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”
Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.
“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”
Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.
The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.
After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”
You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”
He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.
“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”
“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.
You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.
“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”
He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”
You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.”
Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”
His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.
“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”
That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”
You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”
And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance.
“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”
“In your dreams.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.
“You just did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”
You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”
“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”
“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”
He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”
Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”
“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.
You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”
He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”
“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”
“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”
“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You freeze. “I do not—”
“You do,”
You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.
“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.
“Is it, doll?”
There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.
“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”
The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.
“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.
He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—
“Yo! Mingi!”
The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.
“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”
Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”
Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”
You hesitate. And Mingi notices.
His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”
You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.
“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”
His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”
“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”
“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.”
There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.
“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.
“I will.”
You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.
Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.
Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”
You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”
“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.
“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”
“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”
“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”
“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”
“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”
You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“
“Like what?” she prompts.
“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”
“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.
“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”
“That sounds like a start.”
You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”
You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”
“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”
“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”
You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.
The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?
Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?
Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.
She grins. “See? Not ruined.”
You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.
His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”
“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”
You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.
══════════════════
Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.
“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?
Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.
“Still nothing?”
You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”
“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”
“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”
“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”
You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”
Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.
“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”
“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.
After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Just ice cream, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”
“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.
Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.
“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”
You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.
He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”
The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.
“I got scared,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “Of me?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The plan?” he echoes.
“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.
The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.
Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.
“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.
The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.
“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”
You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”
The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”
That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.
“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”
Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.
“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”
The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”
“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”
Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.
You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.
“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.
“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”
You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips. “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”
“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.
“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”
You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”
The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.
“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”
He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”
“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”
“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“
“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”
You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.
“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”
There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.
“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”
“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.
“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”
You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy.
A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.
“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.
You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.
Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.
══════════════════
The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.
It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.
Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”
“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”
“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.
Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.
“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”
You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”
“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”
Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.
One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.
“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk.
Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.
Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”
His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”
The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.
Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.
You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.
You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.
“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.
You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.
That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.
The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.
“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”
“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”
As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.
══════════════════
The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.
“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”
You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”
“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”
You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”
He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”
“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“
“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”
“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”
Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.
The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.
When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.
“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.
“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”
“See? I told you.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”
Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.
Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.
Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.
“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“
His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”
Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist.
“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“
“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”
You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”
The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.
“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.
“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”
You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”
The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.
As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.
“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”
“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”
“Good surprised?”
“Very good surprised.”
He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.
“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.
“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”
By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.
“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“
“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.
Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”
You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.
“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”
“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”
“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”
The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.
Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.
“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.
“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.
You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”
“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.
“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.
He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”
The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.
The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.
“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”
“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”
“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”
The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”
He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”
“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”
You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”
The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere, “I know.”
The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.
“Of course.”
“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”
You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”
He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”
“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”
His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”
“Really? That early?”
He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”
As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.
“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”
“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.
He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”
“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.
Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”
There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.
You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.
Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.
“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”
He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.
The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.
“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.
His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”
In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.
“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.
The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.
“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.
His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.”
══════════════════
When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.
His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.
“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”
He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”
“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.
“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”
You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.
His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.
“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”
The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.
“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.
Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.
You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?
You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.
“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.
He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”
He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”
You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.
“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”
You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.
You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists.
“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.
“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”
Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.
“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows.
You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“
He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.
“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.
“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“
“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.
“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”
You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.
When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.
Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.
“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“
You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.
You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing
He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“
Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.
You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face
“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.
“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.”
The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.
You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.
“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.”
He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”
You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.
You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you.
“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”
You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”
He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.
You decide he’s earned it.
“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”
The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.
All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.
Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”
Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold.
“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.
His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.”
You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.
“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”
“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue.
His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”
“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.
“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.
He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”
You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.
“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.
His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.
“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.
“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.
“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.
With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.
“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”
You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“
He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.
You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name.
“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“
“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”
“Yesyesyes—fuck!”
The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.
“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”
He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.
You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.
Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.
“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”
He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin.
You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.
The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.
“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.
“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”
You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”
“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.
“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.
“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”
Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”
You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”
“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.
His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”
“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.
“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”
He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.
═══════════════════
Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?
Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.
Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.
When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”
“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”
You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”
“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”
You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.
“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”
You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:
According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?
It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.
“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”
The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.
“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”
“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.
Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.
⭑ bf!mingi x gf!reader x bestie!yunho
⭑ four days away at the beach, hiding your feelings from all of your friends while you’re all under the same roof, a week after yunho broke up with you and mingi. easy enough, right?
⭑ lots and lots of pinv, mxm, oral(m&f), edging, public play, bdsm dynamics (feel free to correct me on anything!! i tried to be accurate) praise, degradation, yunho being 3comp yunho. yes that's a warning in itself
⭑ part three of three / wc 36.5k
⭑ — holy shit i can't believe it's over. thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this, this series is my actual fucking baby. it brought so many eyes to my blog and led me to meeting so many wonderful amazing people, thank you so much if you're reading this, if you have read anything about my 3comp babies. no other series has taught me so much. nothing will ever mean as much as this.
⭑ — if you don't recognize my rortor or if haos confused you, pay my good friends a visit here <3 thank u @svgaplvm for letting my people hangout with yours <3
“You can’t seriously think this would ever work.”
You and Mingi haven’t moved an inch since he left for the bedroom. Now stood in front of you in cargo pants and the same dirty tee that was crumpled on your bed, it seems his anger hasn’t dissipated in the three minutes it took for him to get his things together. A bag thrown over his shoulder, jaw locked, eyes wide and wild like you’d just sentenced him to death, it seems very clear that Jeong Yunho wasn’t coming back here.
“I was honest with you guys from the start,” his voice keeps its edge, “I told you what I look for in a relationship, what I want. There’s none of that here.”
Your teeth grit together, eyebrows slanted, fingers squeezing beneath your arms folded over your chest. “You’re overreacting,” you manage, heart running a marathon in your chest, ignoring the fact that his words hurt as you mask your feelings with a show of anger.
“You two are together,” he points between you and your boyfriend with a finger. “I shouldn’t even be part of the equation. I let this go on too long, let it become too serious.”
“You think you’re the only one to blame?” Mingi surprises you with his words, the sharpness behind them, the glossiness in his eyes the only signal of sadness. “We thought we were already in a relationship, it’s all of our fault for not communicating.”
Yunho looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You– Are you serious?”
You nod, you thought it was obvious, “Yunho, we haven't been apart for more than twelve hours in weeks.”
He turns on his heel, “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
Mingi stands, following Yunho as he crosses your living room, “You’re just going to leave? You aren’t gonna talk this out?”
You watch from the couch, breathing deep into your lungs, ignoring how your eyes watered. Yunho turns around sharply, “What is there to talk about? We were fucking, and now we’re not. That’s it.”
You gasp from the couch, Mingi shrinks where he stands. Taking a step back, shaking his head, his voice is shaky as he says, “You don’t mean that.”
“I told you,” Yunho slips his feet into his shoes. “I’ve been honest from the start. If you took it more seriously, that’s on you. I’m sorry.”
Mingi’s arms fall to his sides as Yunho leaves through your front door, the heavy oak slamming shut behind him. Your heart breaks as Mingi’s head hangs low, his shoulders shaking, and it’s the sniff you hear from the couch that gets you on your feet, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend.
“He’s just scared,” you whisper, tears lining your own eyes as Mingi racks a sob into your chest. “He’s just scared, Min. He’ll come around.”
His voice is wrecked, ragged and layered with grief, “I can’t believe he said all of that.”
“Me either,” you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as you run your fingers through his hair, your other hand rubbing circles into his back. “It’s Yunho, we know how he is, especially with relationships.”
“I thought we were different,” Mingi picks his head up, pulling away from you to wipe his eyes. “I thought he was getting over his dramatic relationship block because of us.” He sniffs, then speaks through another sob, his voice cracking, “I thought he loved us, too.”
“You love him?” Your eyes widen, hands landing on his shoulders, and he nods without hesitation. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, eyes screwing shut in an attempt to get your mind to bypass the shock so you can think.
“Don’t you?” Mingi asks, his voice small, like if you said no he might crack entirely.
His laugh crossed your mind first. Eyes squeezed to crescents, grin spread wide, head tipping back as the most beautiful sound left his lips, you always got lost in him when he laughed. A hearty chuckle or a small giggle, when Yunho was emitting nothing but pure joy… Yeah, you loved him.
You loved how he walked closest to the street, how he already had your order memorized at the cafe around the corner. You loved how he touched you, soft and delicate, how he complimented you every time he saw you. You loved that he wasn’t afraid to say the hard things, like telling you that you snore, or that this time your boss was in the right. You loved that he kept small pieces of you close in the years of knowing you, how he revealed his knowledge of you in the past month, how he wasn’t afraid to show his passion.
You loved him, and you fucking knew he loved you back.
“Yeah,” your nod isn’t immediate. “I think I do.”
Mingi’s lip quivers, “We’re just gonna let him leave?”
“We’re adults,” your voice is shakier than you need it to be, forever the rock holding Mingi’s hurricane. “He’s an adult. If he wants us, this, he’ll come back.”
Mingi shakes his head profusely, taking a step back from you, “If we love him then we fight for him, I’m not waiting around while he thinks this is over.”
Your lips curve upward, the most Mingi thing he’s ever said, “We’ll be with him for four days at the beach. Let him sit in the hole he’s dug himself in, let him miss us for a few days.”
Mingi looks at you like you’re speaking another language, “He probably won’t even look at us while we’re at the beach if we wait until then.”
“If we love him,” you step closer to him. “Then chances are he loves us, too. Let him take the time he needs to realize it.”
Mingi takes a heavy breath, thinking about who Yunho is, how he handles situations. With poise, consideration, vigilance. He thinks of all outcomes, all strategies, Yunho thinks of everything with his mind, and not always his heart. Mingi nods, because he hopes that just this once, he’ll think with his heart, and figure out the rest later.
Yunho hasn’t called.
Not a text, not a word, not a breath.
But you were on your way to Haos– and from Wooyoung’s call this morning, asking what time to pick you up, you found out that he’d talked to Yunho just before he called you, and he was still coming to the beach. A shred of relief washed over you as the words left his mouth, it couldn’t be that bad if he was still coming to the beach, four days spent in proximity with you and your boyfriend. And your ten other friends. Right?
“Do you want to stop at the convenience store for anything? Water, coffee, a snack?” Wooyoung asks from the driver’s seat, black hair shagged over his ears, his forehead, curling at the nape of his neck.
Sana groans from the seat beside you, “Can we just go straight there? I’m itching to be on the beach with a drink in my hand.” Dressed in jeans and a strappy tank, heels on her feet, curled dark locks framing her cheekbones, she looked like she was going to the club rather than traveling for a vacation. Being eight in the morning, you looked like you just rolled out of bed.
Mainly because you did.
“I wasn’t just asking you, San,” Wooyoung cuts from the front of the black rental he drove. “We’ve been driving for an hour already.”
“Which means we should only have ten more minutes in the car if you just drive,” she bites back, rolling her eyes. She gives you a look, shaking her head as if Woo was asking the stupidest question in the world. She whispers to you, “He should have asked an hour ago.”
You smile at her instead of giving her an answer, redirecting your gaze to the top of Mingi’s head that peeks over the headrest of the passenger seat. After spending some time away from her, you thought you’d at least be a little excited to see her, but alas, she still drives you up a fucking wall. You could have gone longer.
You lean your head against the window for the last ten minutes, listening to soft rock music with your eyes glued to the intricate, tall houses along the coast, the small shops, the ice cream parlors, everything about this place screaming beach. Summer. Rich summer. You were still excited to come here, drama aside, spending time with your friends, cozying up in one of San’s queen-sized beds in one of his several bedrooms. You loved his house, the feeling it gave you, how badly you’d like to own something like it one day.
You didn’t mind four days of pretending it was yours, nor did you mind laying on the beach, a drink in your hand. Maybe you’d shove your feelings aside and stay glued to Sana all weekend.
Finally pulling up on a rocky driveway, you pull your eyes away from the beach just beside it, taking in the cream-colored fucking mansion before you. Ridiculous architecture, a two-car garage, a double main staircase, several balconies and a fenced rooftop, what always took your breath away was the windows. So much light poured into the house, salt scented air rushing through the space when the countless pairs of double doors opened, this house screamed happiness. It screamed carefree.
You let the feeling fill you, let it take a weight off your chest as you stretch your body upon leaving the backseat. Whatever happened this weekend, you’d accept. However you and Mingi returned home, with or without another boyfriend, you’d be okay. Both of you.
You took a look around the driveway as Wooyoung and Mingi went into the trunk to grab all of your luggage. You and Mingi shared one, but Sana… She had two for herself, she bragged about it as soon as you opened the car door.
Three other cars sat in the driveway. You recognized Yeosang’s, Jongho’s, Seonghwa’s, you assumed San and Jongin’s cars were in the garage. No sign of Yunho’s car.
Mingi carried your luggage in behind you, you didn’t knock as you walked through San’s front door, nor did you have time to appreciate the creams, whites and blues stretching across the inside, because the only other person in the living room when you walked inside was Yunho.
Your jaw clenched as your eyes slid over the back of him, faced away from you as he scrolled on his phone.
“Honey, I’m home!” Wooyoung yelled from behind you, and his voice echoed through the archways of the main floor, bouncing off each perfectly staged wall, the balcony above you.
Yunho snapped around, meeting your eye, and he immediately stiffened. With one of his infamous linen sets on, barefoot and his hair swept back, you had to stop yourself from muttering damn under your breath. You loved when he looked like summer, but you also loved when he looked like winter, when he needed the comfort of fleece to keep him warm. Maybe you loved Yunho in anything.
You looked away fast, turning to face Mingi who was already staring over your head, at his best friend who had undoubtedly become something more. Mingi stared at him with hope, with an unanswered question, with so much fucking love in his eyes you felt the cracking of your heart in your chest.
“Finally!” You heard San before you saw him, shirtless and in swim trunks, body tanned and golden and sculpted by God himself. He wore a wide grin, Jongin following behind him, his boyfriend just as gorgeous as he is, taller and handsome and damn, just as sculpted.
San pulls Wooyoung into a tight hug, “I missed you, man. It’s been too long.”
“It’s barely been a month,” Wooyoung chuckles. “But yeah, too long.”
Sana’s heels click against the pale hardwood as Jongin pulls her into a hug, the two men exchanging with the couple as you and Mingi attempt to ignore the elephant in the room only visible to the two of you.
Wooyoung pulls Yunho into a hug as you and Mingi share exchanges with San and Jongin, just as the others start piling into the living room.
“We’ve been waiting for you guys!” Tzuyu squeals as she enters your view, and you’re immediately pulled into all the women of the house, sharing hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“I can’t believe we’re the last ones here,” you’re smiling, warmth filling your chest as you bathe in everyone’s excitement.
Jihyo smirks, “Late because you were getting frisky?”
You roll your eyes, heat warming your cheeks, “You need to let go of that. Like, now.”
“Frisky?” Tzuyu pops a brow. “Fill me in.”
“I went over her and Mingi’s place and saw a vib—”
“Okay!” You speak over her, hands ready to clamp over her mouth, and she winks at Tzuyu in a silent promise to fill her in later. You prayed it didn’t include Yunho’s name.
“Who has which room?” Sana asks loudly, speaking over everyone in the midst of conversation.
“We were waiting for you to decide, princess,” Seonghwa replies, voice smooth, a snarky remark hidden behind a beautiful smile. Your lips curl upward when you see him, stood tall next to his boyfriend, Seonghwa’s open shirt matched Hongjoong’s shorts.
“Jongin and I have the master,” San says. “There’s five other bedrooms, one has a pull-out futon.”
“Assuming I’m on the futon,” Yunho immediately adds, his voice flat. “Since I’m the only single one here.”
Your eyes flicker between the two, heart thumping against your chest, stomach feeling sick at hearing him say he’s single.
“You would have been fucked if you brought a date,” San's smile is anything but sheepish. “But I’m sure no one will mind if you crash their room, maybe one of the girlies are out of commission for sexual activity and it won’t matter.”
Jongin smacks his chest with a disgusted look, but San giggles to himself. You look around the room and all the girls fall quiet, all the guys stay quiet, too used to San and his remarks to feed him a reaction.
“He can room with you and Mingi,” Jihyo nudges your shoulder from beside you,.“Duh. You guys are super close, anyways, just kick him out when you wanna fuck.”
“We aren’t twenty years old, Ji,” you muster. “We can go a few days without fucking.”
You look up at Mingi and you can tell he’s teetering on the edge of losing his shit. You turn to Yunho and he looks like that’s the last thing he wants. Seeing his face, the clear dislike of the idea, imagining the thoughts racing through his mind, all of it combined makes you slap a smile on your face, “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll take him.”
“Hope you left the hitachi at home,” Jihyo whispers in your ear, winking. You nudge her back, forcing the smile to stay on your face— no one has any idea of what you’ve gone through the last few days. What happened. What started it in the first place.
“Perfect!” San claps his hands together. “That was easy. Go unpack your shit and then we can go to the beach.”
Mingi is at your side as soon as everyone takes a step toward the staircase, voice a low growl in your ear, “Why did you do that?”
You whisper back, “It’ll be fine.”
You didn’t know if it would be fine.
“Three bedrooms on the second floor, two on the top, master is on the main floor. You guys can figure out which rooms yourselves,” San says from the base of the steps as you all make your way up, your shoes hitting the hardwood in chorus, everyone dragging their belongings behind them.
Yunho stays close behind you and Mingi as you check each room in search of yours, taking in the detail of the hallways, where the bathrooms were. The paintings on the walls, tables with vases, starfish, framed pictures of small sayings of wordplays with the word beach, you made sure to take in everything, let it fill you with ease, you were on vacation.
You wouldn’t let Yunho ruin it.
On the third floor, Jihyo and Jongho peeled off into a room at the beginning of the hallway, a bathroom and two closets between you as yours lived at the end. A queen-sized bed, a couch along the wall that pulled out to a bed, the room was decently sized. Cozy, with its balcony attached, white covering the walls, the bedspread and couch a pale blue.
Mingi threw your suitcase onto the bed as Yunho threw his duffle bag onto the couch. The air was tense, heavy, you could hear conversation downstairs, Jihyo and Jongho unpacking just down the hall. There was no sound coming from your room other than zippers sliding and clothes being shuffled.
You stood opposite Mingi on either side of the bed as he sorted through the suitcase, zeroed in on his hands as he separated the clothes you were hanging from the ones going into drawers. With your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you stood focused, yet thinking of nothing as your ears rang, buzzing beneath the heaviness of silence.
What was he thinking right now?
Your eyes flickered to him as he pulled clothes out of his duffel bag, folding them along the couch, laying out the clothes he was hanging up, keeping his toiletries separate. Your gaze fell on his shoulders, broad and muscular beneath the linen he wore, the length of his legs stretching to the floor beneath him, bare feet pressed against hardwood, stepping to the side to fold another tee along the cushion.
You turn your attention back to Mingi, shaking off the discomfort as you grab the clothes to hang up, heading for the closet next to the couch. You lay the clothes over the armrest, hanging up tops, Mingi’s favorite pair of nice pants, the dress you brought to wear to the bar on Saturday. You think that’s the only time you were going out all weekend other than to small shops around the town.
The last shirt you had to hang, one of Mingi’s, you knew you grabbed it from the stack of clothes on the bed, but it wasn’t splayed out on the couch beside you. Brows furrowed, you turned on your heel to check the bed, just for Yunho to be stood at your side, holding the shirt out for you while he had his own stack of clothes folded over his forearm.
You swallowed, avoiding his eye, “Thanks.”
Grabbing the shirt from his hand, your fingers brushed against each other, the feeling of his skin on yours no matter how small immediately sent a jolt of electricity up your forearm, into your shoulder. You were quick to hang up the last shirt, moving out of his way, back to where Mingi was before the dresser.
While he laid folded clothes, pajamas, boxers and panties into separate drawers, you grabbed your bikinis, his swim shorts, cover-ups and the singular bra you brought to help him. The room still silent, suffocating with everything left unsaid, you began laying out your toiletries along the top of the dresser.
You could feel his eyes. Lifting your gaze, meeting his stare through the mirror, you shuffled to the side as he sauntered up next to you, throwing his own clothes into the rest of the empty drawers.
God, is this what the rest of the week was gonna be like? If so, fuck that, he can sleep on the couch. Downstairs. Far away from you and Mingi so you can enjoy this room and its balcony all to yourself.
“Hey!” Tzuyu gleamed, knocking on the doorframe at the same time as she spoke. You jumped a foot in the air, hand clasping your chest, a gasp escaping your chest. She giggles, long brown hair in a braid over one shoulder, bikini already on her body. “Yeosang and I are going to the liquor store before we head down to the beach, want anything?”
“Uh,” you glance up at Mingi, trying to find words. “Tequila, beer, some kind of seltzer to sip on. The usual shit.”
She nods, “Same beer as always, right?”
“Please,” Mingi nods back, giving her a smile that she would never know wasn’t real.
Your stomach fucking aches. You could push your pain aside, but when it comes to Mingi, seeing him hurt in real time, you could feel it as if he shared it with you. Your jaw locks, you could not go the whole week like this.
Tzuyu peeks her head back in, “You should get ready, we’ll be back in ten.”
“Got it,” you smile, and when she bounces out of your room again, it drops. You needed to do something. You rack your brain as you zip the suitcase closed, shoving it beneath the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Yunho was pretending. He was forcing a mindset on himself, ignoring his feelings for you and Mingi, he was putting on a show that he didn’t mean. In his head, he was protecting himself, or maybe he was protecting you two from getting hurt, of what could go wrong in the future.
You glance up at Mingi who stood leaned up against the dresser, on his phone. You glance over at Yunho who sits on the couch, on his phone. Just because he was acting like he doesn’t love you, doesn’t mean that he believes it.
Your eyes land on Mingi again, holding them there. He looks up from his phone, meeting your stare.
Your lips curve upward. I’m gonna do something crazy.
He pops an eyebrow, lips crinkling. Oh no.
Your smile grows, eyes flashing something dangerous. You gotta trust me on this one.
Mingi nods, face still wary. I always trust you.
You push yourself up off the bed to the dresser, opening one of the drawers, pulling out one of your bikinis from the bottom. You should really thank Jihyo for even putting it in your mind that you should wear one of your college bikinis— so small and skimpy it could barely be considered anything other than string, you funneled confidence into your veins. You wouldn’t care about how you looked after a drink or two, anyways.
Your eyes meet Mingi’s through the mirror, bikini in your hands. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?
Mingi shoots you a silent laugh. You’re fucking nuts.
You stick your tongue out. You love it.
Mingi licks his lips. I love you, and that bikini.
You hold his eyes through the mirror. Remember what I said, trust me.
Letting your eyes dance over Yunho once more, you lay the bikini out over the dresser, and then pull your shirt over your head in one quick motion.
“Shiiit,” Mingi mutters under his breath, long and dragged out from the bed, purposely loud enough for Yunho to hear. His eyes pick up, seeing you through the mirror, eyes catching on you shimmying your shorts down your legs, then your panties.
You don’t let your gaze linger, pulling the bottoms up your legs, then tying the top around your back. “Min, can you tie me?”
He’s at your back in an instant, letting his hands dance along your waist before settling at the back of your neck, bikini strings between his fingers. You’re smiling at each other through the mirror and it’s then that you know he understands what’s going through your mind, the plan you cooked up just a minute ago.
His hands settle on your hips after he finishes tying your top, and both of your eyes slide to Yunho, catching him just as he looks back down at his phone, fingers pressed to his forehead. You smirk at Mingi through the mirror, wondering if maybe you pushed Yunho just a little harder, could you crack the shell of his facade?
Yunho’s never been a huge fan of the beach. He burns easily, sand gets between his toes, in places he simply can’t reach, he hates how his hair looks after being in the breezy, salty air for too long. He’s been excited to come to Haos despite it, to spend time with you and Mingi away from home, but he didn’t give it enough thought to really consider the logistics of it all.
To himself, he thought it easy: Around everyone else, you and Mingi would be your usual selves, madly in love for the world to see. At the end of the night, behind closed doors, where no one could hear you or see you, that’s when he’d have his way with you both. He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t excited for that most of all.
Forcing you into submission, into silence in the dead of night, so the whole house couldn’t hear the whiney moans that leave Mingi’s mouth when Yunho takes him, or the shrill screams that Yunho pulls from your chest when he pushes you just a little too far. It’d be fun— that was fun to him, keeping the two of you hidden away, his two nasty little secrets. No one had to know.
Because if they did, if anyone knew anything, it’d break your perfect bubble. He’d be forced to admit that he hated the idea of not being able to touch you in public, not being able to kiss you, or even flirt with you. Either of you. Which opens another question, one Yunho wasn’t willing to answer, or give any more of his attention.
Luckily, it blew up in his face before he had the chance to worry about it too much, like it has a hundred times before with plenty of different partners. This was the routine— fuck for awhile, become a little more on accident, realize that this isn’t what he wants, leave. Leave, leave, leave. Yunho was good at leaving, at hiding, at not taking what he wants when it’s staring at him in the face.
It was too fucking vulnerable. He ached for love, for true routine, to wake up next to someone and go grocery shopping on Sunday mornings. He yearned for someone to know him down to his core, to love him for the silly things, not just how he fucked or how he guided. For how much he needed to take care of his partners, he never realized how much he needed to be taken care of, too.
This morning, how you stared at him with a locked jaw, a storm in your eyes, he knew he deserved it. He deserved your anger, your pain, he wishes he could take it from you and keep it for himself. How Mingi looked at him, with pain and love and hope, seeing Mingi’s feelings raw in his eyes terrified Yunho. Knowing Mingi hurt, that he was the cause of his ache but also knowing he’d take him back in a second, it sent a shiver down his spine, leaving a hole too deep, too cold in his gut.
He really fucked up this time. He really, seriously, absolutely fucked up. He's fallen asleep cuddled up to your side, he’s woken up beside you for weeks. He’s gone grocery shopping with you, he keeps a mental list of everything you have in your house. You made space for him in your home, for his body and his clothes, he has a toothbrush beside your sink, products in your shower, socks in the top drawer of Mingi’s dresser. He’s felt the rush of affection when Mingi finishes his sentence, he’s felt the pain sitting in the crease of your brow without it having anything to do with him.
He walked into what he was most afraid of, but what he’s yearned for without even realizing. Everything happened so fucking fast. That night with Mingi was the true beginning, he thinks, the catalyst that made him fall headfirst without casting a net. That night changed all of your boundaries, leaving everything in open field for the taking. Yunho took it with greedy hands, but then he destroyed it all the same.
He knows what you’re thinking. In that pretty little head of yours there’s millions of beautiful, strategic thoughts, plans, ways to get him back in your bed. Even though he fucked up. Even though he was the one that destroyed it all.
The curve of your chest in the mirror, a peek of the goldmine between your legs as you bent over, if this was a week ago he would have pinned your chest to the glass and fucked you until you were crying just for teasing him. Mingi’s hands trailing down your skin, his breath on the back of your neck, jealousy infested Yunho like a disease. He could feel the ghost of Mingi’s hands on his body, on his chest, his abdomen, his torso, he forced himself to tear his eyes away so he didn’t break.
Yunho was the one who fucked it all up, and here you two were, trying to get him to fix it. Naive and optimistic, two traits that you two shared that made Yunho feel like he was your missing piece. He wouldn’t break so easily, you two have to know that, you know him.
He watches you run across the sand, wet chest bouncing beneath golden sunrays with a can grasped in your palm. Mingi follows you from the water, trunks slick to his thighs, the inseam of his shorts shorter than any other pair he owned. Yunho sits with his jaw locked, his fingers curled around the armrests of the beach chair beneath the umbrella, watching as Mingi picks you up from behind, a grin on his lips as he presses them to your cheek.
You two didn’t do PDA. You haven’t since you were in your early twenties, when your relationship just began. Everyone in the group knows it, but no one notices, no one pays any mind to the clear show you were putting on just for him. Mingi’s arm is hooked around your torso, black hair clinging to his cheeks, his neck, the two of you dripping in saltwater and love. He keeps you there, hanging off his arm as he walks back up to where you set up, your giggles becoming clearer, reminding him of his favorite song the closer you get.
He could just get up and go back inside. The beach was San’s backyard, after all.
“Can you hand me another seltzer, please?” You ask sweetly as soon as Mingi puts your feet back on the ground. Yunho blinks beneath his shades before the question registers in his mind, it’s the first that you’ve spoken to him other than thanks in the bedroom.
He reaches into the cooler, making sure to hand you your favorite flavor, feeling bile rise up in his throat when Mingi opens it for you and plants a kiss on your lips before you take a sip. Maybe he had it all wrong— maybe you didn’t fucking care that Yunho was no longer apart of your relationship. Maybe, in some sick, twisted way, what happened just a few days ago made your relationship stronger. Seems about right for the two of you.
“Let’s play volleyball!” Wooyoung shouts over the hum of soft rock music and waves in his ear. He forces his eyes away from you two to glance at Wooyoung, holding a volleyball to his chest while beads of sweat drip down his bronzed, tanned skin.
“Hell no,” Sana responds from her towel, laying on her stomach with a bucket filled with God knows what kind of liquor in the sand just above her head. “We’re relaxing.”
“I meant the guys,” Wooyoung replies, the smile on his cheeks never faltering, ignoring his girlfriends’ tone completely. He wiggles his eyebrows at Yunho, “You up for it? A little friendly game?”
“I’m out,” Hongjoong responds from his chair, can of beer in his hand, head laid back along the headrest beneath the shade of the umbrella, “I just ate a gummy.”
“I’m out, too,” Yeosang lifts his head from his towel, Tzuyu at his side, the two of them cuddled up so close under the burning sun he wondered how they weren’t suffocating.
“I’m going to swim,” Jongin waves a hand, already turning his heel to walk down to the shore.
“I’m down,” Yunho says, needing a break from staring, standing from his chair.
“I’m down, too,” Mingi adds as if on command, pressing another kiss to your lips before walking towards where Wooyoung stood behind Yunho.
San, Jongho and Seonghwa make their way towards them, too, and Yunho quickly regrets his decision when Mingi stops directly at his side. He stiffens, eyes glancing down to where Mingi’s hand lingers inches beside his.
“Three versus three then?” San smirks as the six of them make their way towards the net across the beach. “I call Woo and Mingi on my team.”
Jongho breaks into a laugh as he leans on the pole beside the net, fingers sinking into the webbing, “So it’s me, Hwa and Yunho?”
“I think that’s fair,” San shrugs. “We share the towers.”
Yunho rolls his eyes, and Mingi’s smile is wide. Seonghwa dips under the net to the other side of the sandy court, “They’re both competitive, too. Think it’s best we share.”
“We can hear you, y’know,” Yunho follows, sliding into position flanking Jongho’s side, a grin crawling over his cheeks that was nothing short of competitive. “No need to fight over us.”
“First team to twenty,” Wooyoung juts out his chin from the other side of the net, “Best out of three?”
Yunho pushes out an accidental sigh, “Three games?”
Mingi, like he’d been waiting for that comment, snaps. “Why not?” He cocks his head to the side, smile dangerous. “Three games too much of a commitment for you?”
The blood from Yunho’s face drains, the amusement in his eyes gone. After Yunho’s face falls, Mingi giggles, and the rest of the guys seem completely unaware of the jab that just left Mingi’s mouth. Yunho glares at him, knowing now that the two of you are serious about getting under his skin, but he chooses to ignore the shred of pride he feels with your efforts.
The first game went by quickly— Mingi, San and Wooyoung were good. Yunho, Seonghwa and Jongho were good, too, but fell just short of their opponents. The second game went by just as fast, but instead this time it seemed Yunho’s team had a chip on their shoulder, a little too much pride to let their friends win twice. The third game, everyone was drenched in sweat, covered in sand from diving for the ball, forearms burning from bumping it, everyone’s patience was running thin. Curses were shouted, insults thrown from one side of the net to the other, they had gotten serious real quick.
Mingi and Yunho stood at either side of the net, eyes on the ball above their heads, the two of them jumping at the same time to either spike, or block. The ball fell on Mingi’s side and his eyes dropped for a millisecond to see Yunho, both hands up, palms flat out to block his spike.
Yunho, ambition living in the slant of his brows, tongue peeking between his lips, didn’t give Mingi an opening to push the ball through. So Mingi hit it to the side, just past Yunho’s hands before he could even think of sliding his arms over.
Yunho cursed, and Mingi’s arms went over his head in a cheer for winning them one more point towards victory. Mingi leaned in close to the net, a smirk on his lips, “Pay attention, Yun. You don’t want me thinking I’m distracting you, do you?”
Yunho’s jaw locks. Mingi was pushing it, he usually wasn’t the bratty one, that was your area of expertise.
“Careful,” is all he says, venom on his tongue as his chin tips upward, just to stare down at Mingi through lowered brows.
Mingi’s smirk grows, almost a full smile, fingers hooking into the net to lean closer. “Or what?”
Yunho licks his bottom lip, shaking his head as he turns around, back to where he stood, waiting for the ball to be served. Maybe he was stupid for considering you two didn’t care about him, especially after the bedroom, and now he had Mingi taunting him ten feet away?
The ball hits the sand beside his foot before he can process that it was served. Mingi, San and Wooyoung high five, cheering because they were one point away from winning, and Yunho’s teammates turn to him with a scowl.
“What are you doing?” Seonghwa stands with his arms out beside him, face warped into annoyance and confusion.
Jongho barks from beside him, “Lock the fuck in, we’re winning this.”
Yunho nods, shaking off his thoughts, “My bad.”
Then Mingi calls your name. Yunho’s head turns, watching as you turn your head from where you stood with a group of girls that weren’t a part of your group, staring as you jogged towards them when Mingi ushered you over.
That fucking bikini, all string, barely covering anything. His fists clenched when the house hooted and hollered for you, as Jihyo whistled when she saw you. It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for Mingi. It was revenge.
His neck snaps back to the court before him when he hears San’s hand smack the ball, body moving before his brain can think, diving into the sand to bump it up. Jongho is quick to get under it, two hands setting the ball high in the air, but as Seonghwa jumps to smack it over the net, Mingi is already there.
Broad, sculpted abdomen, hard chest he’s rested his head on too many times, hipbones peeking from just above his waistband. Yunho watches Mingi’s arms flex as he blocks the ball, how his torso folds to send the ball into the sand, Yunho nearly shoves his face in the sand too when his three best friends jump for joy across the net.
Seonghwa and Jongho stand defeated, faces set toward the sun, chests heaving. Yunho gets up slowly, just to see you perched on Mingi, arms and legs hooked around his body, lips pressed to his. Mingi’s hands hold you up by your thighs, fingers making indents where they pressed into your skin, and it’s war for Yunho to peel his eyes away from the sight.
“Sorry,” Yunho runs a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes on the sand as he walks toward Seonghwa and Jongho.
Jongho clasps a hand on his shoulder, heavy but reassuring, “It’s just volleyball. We’ll beat ‘em tomorrow.”
Seonghwa nods his agreement, and at least one weight is lifted off his chest. He watches his friends duck under the net, and Yunho follows, ready to get berated by his three other friends, good sportsmanship be damned.
“This is my boyfriend,” he hears, and his eyes land on where you stood with Mingi, just beside the court with the two girls you were standing with before. One a grinning dirty blonde, the other a miserable-looking brunette, Yunho tried to listen as his friends spoke beside him, but jealousy pierced his soul that Mingi was the only one standing beside you, getting introduced as yours.
His feet moved before he could think about it, coming up to your side, and the blonde caught his eye, looking him up and down as he made his way over. You beamed, not showing a flash of surprise or confusion as Yunho stood beside you, you immediately gushed, “This is Yunho, he’s single, super tall, clearly.” You giggled, leaning into Yunho’s side, you were drunk. You whispered not quietly to the blonde, “I think you’d like him.”
Yunho’s eyebrows furrowed, weight hitting his gut with force, and the blonde before him blushed as her hands gripped the cocktail between fingers, her eyes dragging over him again.
The brunette, eyebrows low, stares at Mingi before her, “You look really familiar.”
Your hand clings to his, wrapping your fingers into your boyfriends, shoulders pushed back, no one would know you were standing your ground unless they knew you. Mingi laughs along, “Really? You kind of do, too.”
“Do you have any relatives that go to Nasara?” She cocks her head to the side, “We’re in ITZ, a sorority at Nasara University in Delo.”
Mingi shakes his head, then turns it to look at Yunho, “Do you?”
Yunho shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, she does look familiar. Yunho asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sitara Song?”
The brunette makes a tch noise, then grabs the blonde’s hand, voice dripping in irritation, “Come on, Ror, I’m sure Wooyoung is missing you.”
The blonde looks back at him twice as the brunette drags her away, and Yunho feels unsettled. Not only are you making a show with Mingi in front of his face, taunting him, but now you’re pimping him out to strangers?
Mingi’s eyebrows are knitted together as they walk away, “They have an Wooyoung, too?”
Yunho faces the two of you with his arms crossed, “What the fuck are you doing?”
You’re already smiling, mischief in your eyes, “What do you mean?”
If the three of you were at home…
“What was that?” He asks, a hand stretching in the direction of the two girls walking away.
You giggle, back pressing into Mingi’s abdomen, “Was I wrong? You are single, aren’t you?”
Yunho laughs a low, disbelieving chuckle. He turns on his heel, past the court, back to where you set up, sitting back in the chair he was sulking in before. He reaches into the cooler, pulling out a can of beer. If this was how the weekend was going to be, he might as well be drunk for it, too.
Clean and close to sober, your hair was still wet after your shower as you sat around the bonfire, sweats on your body, under a blanket on the sand. Even in Haos the beach was cold at night, a sharp breeze ruffling everyone’s hair, egging the fire to blaze higher.
Yunho barely looked at either of you during dinner. Lounged out on the back balcony after grilling, he laughed along with everyone, cracking jokes and engaging in banter, but he shut you and Mingi out. After his second beer it was as if he put a wall up, he was choosing to not let the two of you bother him, not that you had much to bother him with after the beach.
Fear lived in all your joints that you took everything too far as you sat cuddled up to Mingi, head on his shoulder. With Yunho on your other side, you tried not to let your eyes slide to him, despite his closeness. Even mad, even apart you still drifted together, you try to let the thought relieve you, but you’re too tightly wound to let anything but his hands steady your heart in your chest.
You missed the way Yunho doesn’t see your fear. Instead, all his tunnel vision allows is the way your arms lay over Mingi’s, the way you melt against your boyfriend, how comfortable Mingi looks with your body touching his. You don’t see his frustration, how his mind whirls a mile a minute in yearning to have any part of you two touching him, too.
“You guys must have needed a vacation,” Hongjoong declared from across the fire, the growing blaze making his orange hair burn brighter, white teeth still shining despite the warmth laying over all of you.
You smile, and Mingi agrees in a small noise from beside you. San perks up in a chuckle, “I haven’t seen you two act like that in years. There’s really never any trouble in paradise, huh?”
Mingi snorts, and you close your eyes with a smile on your lips. If only they knew what trouble was terrorizing your paradise right now.
Jihyo cracks a laugh, holding up a hand like she just remembered something hilarious, “No, can you guys remember the beginning? When they couldn’t keep their hands off each other?”
Your cheeks burn as the group laughs around the fire, a chorus of amusement and remembrance. Jihyo continues, laughter still erupting from her chest, breaking up her words, “I miss when we still had true house parties, I remember catching you guys in Yeosang’s garage.”
Mingi tips his head back with a groan at the memory, you remembered it like it was yesterday, he had you lifted on Yeosang’s father’s workbench, tools covering the space around you. Luckily, Jihyo didn’t see your legs spread for him, or his fingers hooked inside you. Your cheeks blaze hotter than the fire before you.
“That’s not the only time, either,” Jihyo’s leaning forward now, cocktail in her hands threatening to spill over the blanket on her lap.
San interjects, laughing himself, “I think we’ve all caught them once or twice throughout the years.”
Wooyoung frowns, “At least none of you have caught them in your own bedroom. That’s worse, trust me.”
Your hand covers your face, digging your forehead into Mingi’s shoulder as he laughs along, muttering Enough in a low voice. The reason you weren’t as open with your relationship anymore was being laughed about in a circle, filling your gut with embarrassment and shame, Mingi felt it.
You couldn’t see Yunho’s fists clenched at his sides, digging into the blanket above the sand. He tries to laugh along, he has a few stories he could tell himself, but he’s ruined them all with thoughts of what those memories would look like if he was included in them, too. He feels weird inside. Knowing it would always be you two, as it’s always been, but feeling so fucking frustrated that he isn’t included, as if two halves of him were fist fighting just beneath his skin.
“My bad, today just reminded me of back then,” San waves a hand, a warm smile on his lips, showing his dimples. “I’m happy to see it. I’ve missed when you were attached at the hip.”
“I was starting to get worried that you guys were chilling out too much,” Sana interrupts, her head tilted, a cheshire smile on her lips, “I assumed that’s why you didn’t have a ring on your finger yet, that your relationship wasn’t the same as it used to be.”
The circle quiets. A beat of silence lays over you, thick and heavy, her comment feels like a jab. Yunho doesn’t know why it fills his veins with ice cold rage. He bares his teeth, “Where’s the ring on your finger, Sana?”
Seonghwa gasps, Tzuyu’s eyes widen, Wooyoung cracks a smile. Everyone’s eyes dance between Yunho and Sana with fear at her awaiting rebuttal. She tips her cocktail back, takes a sip, then raises it up to Yunho with a sinister smile, “Hopefully we both see rings within the year.”
You blink in confusion and awe, sitting up straight, both of your heads turned toward the black hair sat beside you. He meets your gaze and his eyes feel warmer than they’ve been all day, since before the fight, even. The others redirect the conversation into something lighter, but the three of you stay locked in on each other, a bubble within the ash and smoke surrounding you.
You purse your lips. What was that for?
Yunho smiles. Couldn’t help myself, I guess.
Mingi lays a hand over your thigh. Sana will always be Sana, it’s not worth it.
Yunho leans into his hands stretched out behind him. I’m tired of her sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
Your cheeks warm with a small smile. Thank you.
After all the cans had been thrown into the fire and San had smothered it with the lid, the whole group decided it was time for bed, your day tomorrow required a full night’s sleep. Beach, boardwalk, dinner, a repeat of today, but tomorrow you could really drink. You had half a mind to stay sober tomorrow, you think you had enough day-drinking already, your brain muddled and your limbs sluggish, you didn’t miss the feeling of a hangover.
The queen sized bed felt like a cloud beneath your thighs compared to the sand you were sitting on prior, the bottle of water Mingi handed you when he entered your bedroom healing you. In a hoodie and sweats, the house much too cold for a summer night, you sat up and chugged while Mingi got his toiletries ready for a shower.
Yunho didn’t enter the bedroom until Mingi had left, drying his hair with his towel, sweats hanging low on his hips, droplets of water still trickling down his abdomen. You kept your water in your lap, lips pursed, trying to think of something to say. Just earlier today you weren’t speaking at all, you teased him all day, and then he… Sticks up for you to Sana? It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes sense.
Yunho pulls a tee shirt over his head, barely glancing at you sitting on the bed, then reaches into the closet to grab a blanket. Folded over his forearm, he tucks a pillow under his other arm, then without as much as a word he makes for the door.
“Hello?” You sit up a little taller, confusion in the knit of your brows. “Where are you going?”
He looks back at you over his shoulder, “I’m gonna sleep on the couch downstairs.”
“No,” you answer, shaking your head, staring at him like the idea is ridiculous, because it is.
He raises his brows, “No?”
“Stay,” you urge, heart picking up speed in your chest. “We need to talk at some point.”
He finally turns around, brows still raised as he shrugs, “Talk about what?”
Your lips part but nothing comes out. Jaw clenching, you sit dumbfounded and annoyed. Talk about the fight? Talk about today? Talk about how there’s still clearly something romantic between the three of you?
“How you toyed with me all day?” Yunho finishes your thoughts, taking a step towards your bed, “How the two of you drove me up a fucking wall? How I snapped at Sana to defend you because clearly I’ve lost the ability to control myself?”
You stare at him wide-eyed, speechless, excitement rippling beneath your skin because he took a step toward you.
“They were right, you know,” he tilts his head, taking another step forward, “You haven’t been all over each other like that in years. And I sat there, knowing it was all for me, and couldn’t do a damn thing.”
“Yes, you could have,” you finally counter, voice barely above a whisper.
“What would you have me do?” He says through a sharp chuckle, “Put you over my fucking knee in front of everyone? The whole beach? That's what started all of this, right?”
“I— What do you—?”
“This all started because of sex. You worked me up all day to have me at my wits’ end when we finally got back here at the end of the night. That was the plan, right?”
You blink at him, that was the plan. Partially. “I just wanted you back here so we could talk—”
He smiles as he cuts you off, “You don’t want to talk, not really. I know what you want.”
You sigh, frustration curling your fingers around the water bottle, ignoring the heat between your legs. He drops the blanket and the pillow on the floor as he takes another step forward, thighs just touching the mattress you sat on.
“I do want to talk,” you frown, heart pounding against your chest, scared those five words will stop him from doing everything he was about to do. Voice lowering, you whispered, “I want you.”
“It’s pointless,” he shakes his head, smile dropped,.“You can’t separate it.”
“Because it’s already blended together,” your voice is still low, teetering on the edge of shaky. “The lines were crossed a long time ago, Yun.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” he meets your eye, and there’s nothing kind behind them. No emotion that makes you feel like there’s any possibility of salvaging what you had. You refuse to trust it, the mask he puts on, you cling to how he’s looked at you these past weeks, with love and trust in his eyes, the mask he wears now is to protect himself.
You give him a bitter chuckle, “Who are you to tell me what’s right? Do you not feel anything when you look at me?”
“When I look at you,” he keeps his face steady, emotionless. “I see Mingi’s girlfriend.”
“You’re a liar,” you spit, sitting up on your knees, crawling closer to him on the bed. He watches, unmoving, eyes not even flickering a change in feeling. “Why did you stick up for us to Sana then?”
“Because you’re my friends, and I’m tired of hearing her project her own insecurities onto you.”
“Why were you bothered when I told that Aurora girl you were single, then?” You stand on your knees atop the mattress, almost face to face with him. “You are single, aren’t you? You want to be single.”
“I don’t want to be single,” his voice cracks, exasperated, eyebrows shooting to his hairline, “but that doesn’t mean I can just join a relationship that’s been established for over five years!”
“Why are you making it sound like a decision that’s made on a whim? We just spent the last four weeks already in one, Yunho,” you raise your voice to match his, every ounce of emotion punctuating each syllable.
“We spent the past month fucking,” he lowers his voice, words sharp enough to cut. “That’s it.”
As if every single one of your emotions swim up to your waterline, your voice cracks as tears blur your vision, “You’re a bullshit fucking liar, Jeong Yunho.”
You keep your eyes on Yunho as Mingi enters the bedroom, catching the towel hanging from his waist out of your peripherals. Yunho breaks eye contact before you do, his eyes sliding to Mingi who stares dumbfounded in the doorway, then quickly closes the door behind him when his eyes land on you.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes are wide and concerned, one hand on his towel as he quickly makes his way across the room. The streak of sunshine in a hurricane, you can feel the hostility fizzle, his presence comfort enough to cool the fire in your veins.
“Nothing,” you shake your head, then wipe your eyes with one hand as you sit back down on the mattress, legs folded beneath you. Your sniff betrays you, as if Mingi didn’t already know you were crying, “I’m fine.”
Mingi stands beside Yunho, a knit in his brow as he turns to his best friend, “What did you say?”
“Nothing I haven’t said before,” Yunho bends down, picking up the blanket and pillow he was holding before. “I’m sleeping on the couch downstairs.”
“No you’re not,” Mingi chokes out a laugh in irritated disbelief, all of his features blown out as he faces him. “You’re not leaving again, you don’t get to walk out twice.”
Yunho’s chuckle mirrors Mingi’s, his voice louder and strained, “I don’t know what else you want me to say!”
“Say you don’t want us,” you answer from the bed, voice unsteady, terrified of his answer even if you’re certain you know it already. “Say you don’t want this, and we’ll let it go.”
Yunho’s eyes dance between the two of you, the cogs turning in his mind visible in his tight features. Mingi takes a step away, walking towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of briefs to sleep in as he mumbles, “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
You stare at Yunho as his lips open and close, racking his brain for something to say that isn’t that. He shakes his head, “Even if I want this, it doesn’t mean it’s right. What will everyone say?”
The slap of Mingi’s briefs against his hips sounds through the room, “Who gives a fuck what anyone has to say?” He faces Yunho, “If we’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
“It’s not that easy,” Yunho drops the blanket and pillow again, his shoulders pushed back in defense, trying to hold onto what’s left of his control as his hands wave with each word. “As much as I want to believe everything will be sunshine and rainbows, it’s you two. Your relationship is concrete, everyone’s expecting a wedding within the next few years and you want to fuck all of that up?!”
Your stomach drops with the validity of his fear, cheeks warming, ears burning hot. You and Mingi have never decided on marriage, not fully, the two of you semi-estranged from your families, not completely in a place financially to make that kind of commitment. A ring, a big party to show off your relationship was nowhere in the near future. A house came first. Stability came first.
Yunho knows that. He knows all of that, but his fear is still valid– because what happens when you are stable? You and Mingi never got that far, the rest was hopes and dreams that would maybe come true one day. You swallow, sniffing again, raising a hand to wipe what’s left of your lingering tears as understanding turns into a bloom of warmth in your chest.
“I understand this isn’t normal,” Mingi takes a step toward Yunho, confidence clear in his voice, it seems you’ve switched places since the last time you talked. Mingi looks over Yunho’s shoulder to meet your eye for a second before looking at Yunho again, “But this won’t fuck anything up, Yunho, our relationship has always been… What it is. This.”
“Your relationship,” Yunho reiterates, his voice quiet, body leaning towards Mingi. “What if that doesn’t stay the same with me in the picture? What if down the line, you decide you want to get married? Do you want kids? Where does that leave me?”
A rush of something you can’t describe swallows you whole. It was overwhelming enough having this conversation with Mingi, and you haven’t had the conversation again with Yunho in the picture, what that would look like for the three of you. Tears crawl their way back up, a tightness in your throat, heat in your cheeks. You didn’t have an answer to his question, fear leaves your stomach hollow, your limbs tingly.
“We’re not asking you to make a decision now,” Mingi’s hands curl around his waist. “Even if it seems like we are. All we know is that we want to be with you, we’re willing to figure all of the details out together, with you. We want you, Yunho, isn’t that enough to at least try?”
Yunho’s head dips down, his face hidden, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You need to touch him, feel close to him, you need your skin on his, you need to feel like he still wants you. It feels like losing him– a sentiment you can’t bear to accept, you haul yourself off the bed and press yourself into his back.
“This is a lot,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it, weak, frail, strained with uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do, I- I want you too, but this is,” his voice breaks. “Terrifying.”
“I know,” you feel Mingi’s hands swimming along his sides as you keep your cheek pressed to his back, your fists balled into the cotton of his tee. Mingi continues, “You can do it, the commitment, the titles. It’s scary and vulnerable, but it’s us, we won’t hurt you.”
Another trembling breath leaves him as his forehead meets Mingi’s, his hands resting on your own, curled into his shirt. Your lip quivers, trying so hard to keep your own tears in to be the stability he needs, the rock you're used to being; seeing him hurting is like an arrow through your chest, it hurts the same way it does with Mingi.
“You don’t need to make a choice,” Mingi whispers. “But don’t shut us out. Don’t make us think we don’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho whispers, sniffing, his body rigid between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean any of it, I was scared. I am scared.”
You press your lips to his clothed spine, “It’s okay, Yunho.”
He squeezes your hands, palms over knuckle, his touch is grounding. Mingi’s hands glide from his waist over his chest up to the curvature of his shoulders, landing there for a moment as Yunho’s head perks up. Mingi leans in, lips grazing Yunho’s as his hands move to his neck, sliding up to cup his cheeks.
“Can I kiss you?” Soft, honest. Yunho barely gives him a nod before Mingi attaches their lips, Yunho’s hands darting to his waist. You keep your hands on him, body pressed into him, feeling Yunho’s body relax, shoulders drooping, back arching into Mingi’s touch.
Their lips move slowly, unhurried, a practice of searching for something in one another, finding it, reveling in it. The air changes around you, expanding, room opening, tension slipping through the balcony door and into the saltwater air, dissipating into the humidity. Yunho’s hands find Mingi’s cheeks and they move together, bodies arching into one another, getting lost in emotion and feeling and longing, you could feel all of it, it bled from both of them and into you, watching from behind.
Hands on Yunho’s waist, you guide him backward until your back hits the bed. You crawl onto it, never breaking your eyes from the pair, watching as Yunho uses one hand to support himself while Mingi lays him down onto the mattress.
“I missed you.”
You’ve never heard him sound like that before. Emotional– soft and whiney, honest, like he’d pulled the words from the deepest part of his consciousness, a box he kept tucked away. It has you moving, crawling over to them, inserting yourself into their bubble. Yunho’s hand reaches for your cheek as soon as you come into view, your eyes meeting, and for the first time you see him consumed by lust without the harsh blade of control in his eyes. Raw, open, free, there’s nothing but delicacy swirling in chocolate brown as he pulls you down into him, attaching his lips to yours like he’d been waiting to do it all day.
Hungrier than those with Mingi, his lips move quickly, tongue slotting between your lips to search your mouth for something true, as if you haven’t given him all of you since the start. “I want you,” you whisper, sharing his breath, a soft smile curving your lips before he swallows down your words with his mouth. You swing one leg over his hips and he sits up on an elbow, his other hand moving to your hip for leverage as he pushes himself up until he’s sitting, shifting you properly on his lap.
Mingi moves behind him, hands on his waist under his shirt, lips finding his neck with soft presses of his lips as your fingers reach for the hem of his tee. “Need this off,” you whisper into his mouth. “Want to feel you.”
Mingi’s the one who pulls the cotton tee over his head, lips finding Yunho’s shoulder as you kiss his lips again, tongue dancing with his, hands splayed on his pecs, letting the warmth of him seep into you. Yunho reaches beneath your hoodie, fingers cold as they dance along your skin, palms curled around your waist while his thumbs brush against your abdomen, his touch is soft, like he’d break you if he pressed too hard.
You break the kiss only to pull the hoodie over your head and Mingi steals Yunho’s lips, using two fingers to his chin to turn his face. You watch them for a moment before leaning in, lips following the curve of his jaw down to his throat, flattening your tongue down to the base of his neck, sucking into his skin just above his collarbone. He tastes clean, like his bodywash, him, your hands find the waistband of his sweats, tugging them downward.
Yunho gasps as you slip them from under him, hips moving easily for you, “I– Are you sure?”
You’re nodding on command, “Of course, I’m sure.”
He’s talking as you tug his briefs down to his thighs. “I said a lot of things.”
“You didn’t mean them,” Mingi answers as you settle yourself between his thighs, coaxing Yunho backward until his back is pressed to his chest.
His cock stands tall against his pelvis, pink-kissed and leaking, it makes your mouth water. Yunho’s hips twitch as your nails graze his thighs, making you smile, eyeing him through your brows. He looks… scared. Like this was unknown territory, his eyes wide, red splotched chest rapidly rising and falling, fingers curled into the sheets beside him.
It makes you want to take care of him in the same way he’s always taken care of you.
“Is this okay?” You ask softly, making him nod. Your head tilts, needing the words to continue, “Do you want this?”
“Yes– fuck,” his hips twitch again, brows raising like he’s surprising himself. “I want it, I want you. Please.”
There’s a pit in your gut as the plea leaves his lips and you’re wrapping your fingers around his length, making a show of the glob of spit dropping from your tongue and onto his length, using your fingers to spread it. He groans, head tipping back into Mingi’s chest as you start working his length with your hand, watching him carefully. So pretty, hair mussed about, chest splotchy and body twitching, you wonder if this is how you look beneath him. You dip your head down, tongue lolling out of your mouth to lick at his tip, salty, raw, Yunho– you wrap your lips around him and suck.
“Fuck,” he draws out the word, low and heavy, a hand reaching down to tangle into your hair. You let him ease you down his length, tongue flat against the underside of him, lips suctioned tight. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”
There he is. You smile, barely, lips stretched around the width of him, bobbing your head as your fist works the base of him, pumping, twisting, gripping him just right– the moan he releases is nothing but nasty, Mingi swallows it, stealing his lips again, you can hear their mouths as much as you can hear your mouth around his length, everything wet, sloppy. Mingi’s hands reach beneath his arms to his chest, thumbs flicking over his nipples and his hips buck into you, making you gag, a hand clawing into his thigh, eyes squeezing tight.
“Sorry– fuck,” he curses again, voice desperate, “feels so good, don’t stop.”
You take him down your throat, gagging yourself purposefully as your nose meets the tuft of black hair at his base, the hand that was curled around him reaching below, cupping his balls softly, tightening your throat around him as you squeeze your palm ever so lightly. The sound that leaves him is obscene, abdomen clenching, his hands finding Mingi’s thighs, nails digging into his skin. You bob your head, breathing through your nose to keep him deeply rooted in your throat, constricting around him just to hear that noise over and over.
“Oh my god,” his voice is strained, harsh, “I’m gonna cum– I want to fuck you, please, wait–”
His hand finds your hair but you don’t budge, keeping your rhythm on his cock, nose buried in his hair as your saliva drips from your lips and onto his pelvis, sliding down to where your hand lays below.
“Baby, baby–”
His moan is strangled, caught in his throat as his limbs lock, legs straightening while his grip tightens in your hair, hips bucking into your mouth once, twice before his release shoots down your throat. You swallow him down, keeping your mouth suctioned to him as you ride out his high until he’s shaking, slipping off of him with your tongue still flat to ensure you’ve gotten every last drop.
You break off of him with a pop, eyes glassy as you find him winded. Chest heaving, head lazily thrown on Mingi’s chest, your brown-haired boyfriend just smiled proudly from behind him.
“Mouth just as dangerous as your pussy,” Mingi says, hands still splayed across Yunho’s abdomen, fingers softly petting his skin.
“Only for you,” your smile is coy, of all things. Crawling up to where they sat, you lean down and press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, then one to Yunho’s. He still looks winded when you pull away, making you giggle, “You okay?”
He nods, “I just… I haven’t come since the last time, with you. Need a second.”
You snort, “A whole week, is that a new record or something?”
Yunho smiles, laughter in the exhale through his nose, “Don’t get smart with me, I haven’t forgotten about today.”
You lean down to press another kiss to his lips, keeping yourself close as you say, “Been waiting for the chance to do something about it, like you said?”
His eyes flicker up to yours. In that one sentence it’s as if you reminded him who he was, what he’s capable of. These eyes you know, deep and controlled, harsh in a way that tickles your spine. Your core clenches around nothing, tongue poking out to lick over your lips, anticipation heating your blood.
“Take off your pants, sit at the top of the bed.”
He barely gets the sentence out before you’re shimmying yourself out of your sweatpants, crawling up to your pillows. You’re vibrating as Yunho turns to Mingi, standing up on his knees, grabbing the younger man with one palm below his jaw to pull him upward. Mingi scrambles to his knees, brows already furrowed, lips still touching in the center as they part.
Yunho smashes his lips into Mingi’s, there’s nothing graceful about the way his other hand digs into the nape of Mingi’s neck, making him arch into the older man with a whimper pouring straight into his mouth as his hands find Yunho’s biceps for leverage. It’s messy, rough, Yunho picking him apart with nothing but his lips– it makes your knees tie together, adding pressure between your thighs.
“You,” Yunho starts, the word accusatory, giving Mingi another unforgiving press of his lips before he continues. “Teased me all day. Taunting me during volleyball, in front of our friends, do you have anything you want to say to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Mingi squeaks, fingers curling into Yunho’s biceps, the sound makes a smile spread across your cheeks, eyes flaring.
“Louder.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Better,” Yunho mumbles, reaching down to pull his shirt up and over his head. One hand reaches down to palm Mingi over his briefs, palm flat and fingers splayed over his length, and Mingi folds upon contact. Head dipping low, abdomen clenching, a groan spills from his lips as his hips buck into Yunho’s touch.
“Don’t tease,” Mingi whispers, voice a strangled moan.
Yunho huffs a laugh, “Like you teased me earlier? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”
Mingi lifts his head up to look at Yunho just as he starts grinding his palm against his length, bare chest leaning into Mingi’s, using his height to his advantage to look down at him. Mingi sputters, “T-That’s different, Yun. We were trying–”
“Trying to what?” Yunho squeezes his length and Mingi whimpers. Yunho smiles, “Bait me into fucking you in front of everyone?”
“No–”
“Then what?”
“Wanted to feel like you still wanted us,” Mingi says it all in one strained breath, his voice rising in pitch as Yunho’s hand slips beneath his briefs, fingers wrapping around his length.
“I wanted you,” Yunho’s voice slips into something quieter, other hand reaching up around Mingi’s neck, thumb brushing over his bottom lip as before brings his face to Mingi’s, lips almost touching. “The whole time.”
“You left,” Mingi’s voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, a hiss leaving his lips when Yunho twists his wrist, palm closing over the tip of his cock. Yunho pushes Mingi’s briefs down his thighs, lowering Mingi down until his knees are spread, arms splayed behind him, cock jumping against his pelvis, red, angry and leaking like a fucking faucet.
“Do you want my mouth?” Yunho, between Mingi’s knees, asks before his eyes slide to you at the top of the bed. “Or do you want to be filled?”
Mingi’s brows raise. “I get a choice?”
Yunho shrugs. “My way of saying sorry.”
Both of their eyes slide to you and your eyes widen under their attention, back straightening against the pillows. They drink in your posture, knees pressed together, hands scrunched in the sheets as if that’s the only thing keeping you from slipping your hand between your legs.
“Come.”
Yunho’s voice is unyielding, it has you crawling across the mattress on all fours, landing on your knees before them. Mingi’s head tilts, “Thought I had a choice?”
Yunho snorts his amusement, “Like you’d choose anything other than my cock filling you up.” He plants a hand against your cheek, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead, “You can kiss while I prep him, but don’t touch.”
You nod, eager as you settle yourself laid down in front of Mingi, your beautiful boyfriend who already looked so gone. Cheeks pink, chest heavy, his muscled biceps land on either side of your head against the mattress, your calves curling over his thighs with him above you. His cock lands against your lower tummy, heavy, sticky, the order not to touch has your heart picking up speed in your chest, a desire you can’t fulfill.
“Hi, baby,” Mingi’s smiling as he presses one, soft kiss to your lips. Your arms are bent up, hands on either side of your shoulders, palms faced up with your fingers loose and limp, hips fighting the urge to buck up into him.
You push out a sigh, “Need you,” your back arches instead, nipples pebbling beneath the breeze that drifts through the room. “Wanna feel full.”
He places another soft kiss on your lips, “Soon.” He deepens the kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth, you can taste him, taste Yunho, it makes you moan into him, fingers twitching because you want them on his face, in his hair, around his cock.
Yunho leaves the bed to cross the room, you hear him opening the closet, the zipper of the duffel he brought sliding open, but Mingi’s tongue is licking into your mouth, rendering you thoughtless, you don’t care to look over. “Wanna touch you,” you whisper, back arching more until your nipples press against his warm skin, whining at the contact.
“Patience, baby,” his lips find your jaw, elbows closing in around your head, tongue sliding down to your neck to lick a stripe back up to your jaw. You moan, legs tightening around his thighs, hips bucking against his length that tapped against your stomach with each movement. Torture, being naked beneath him, wanting so badly to touch, to feel.
You feel the dip of the bed when Yunho kneels behind him, you hear the cap snapping open on what you can only assume is a bottle of lube. It makes you smirk, knowing he brought it with him, that it was in his bag, waiting to be used. Yunho’s palms flatten over Mingi’s ass, and his head dips down into your shoulder at the contact, in anticipation of what comes next.
You watch over Mingi’s shoulder as Yunho squirts some into his hand, closing it before running two fingers down the space between, thumb circling his hole. Mingi’s whole body jerks, gasping into your neck, cock digging into your stomach.
“Open up for me,” Yunho says softly, “let me in.”
Mingi’s knees spread a little wider, lips meeting your shoulder, your neck, back arching lower, the position Yunho likes. Yunho keeps his eyes on you beneath him as he pushes a finger inside, his own brows furrowing together at the feeling of him, the tightness around his digit.
“Shit,” Mingi whimpers into your skin and one hand comes up to tangle in his hair, relaxing him into the stretch, all while keeping your eyes on Yunho.
“That’s it,” Yunho nods, voice just above a whisper, “there you go.”
Yunho bites his lip as he crooks his finger and Mingi fucks back, head lifting from your shoulder to push himself into the older man, moaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. You quickly turn your head to catch a glimpse, his slacked jaw, eyes softly shut, brows knitted together in pleasure, so fucking beautiful. The sight of him when you’re wrapped around his cock versus Yunho pushing into him, the sight of his pleasure was so different, so raw seeing him this way, so open and desperate.
“Yes,” you find yourself whispering, back arching at his pleasure, almost feeling it as if it were your own.
Yunho adds another finger, making Mingi moan, lifting himself up onto his palms, head craning to see Yunho behind him. “More, gimme your cock, I can take it.”
Yunho nods, ripping open a condom packet from beside him and slipping it on in one quick motion. Tapping his cock between Mingi’s cheeks, he looks over Mingi’s shoulder to you, “Go ahead.”
At the speed of fucking light you’re reaching between you, making Mingi gasp as your fingers wrap around his length, Yunho lining himself up behind him as you line him up at your center. You didn’t need the prep, the head of his cock slipping around as soon as you brought it to your slit, sliding through your wetness until it caught against your entrance, making you gasp out a moan.
“Fuck,” Mingi’s voice sounds strangled, strained, preparing himself to fuck you full while he gets fucked full– you’ve done it plenty, but each and every time it’s overwhelming for him, for you to be fucked by Yunho’s thrusts.
“Breathe,” Yunho says, and it’s both a warning and an order as he pushes inside, making Mingi’s breath catch in his throat until he forces it down into the base of his lungs. Yunho groans, head tipping back as he slowly pushes inward until he seats himself inside.
One of your hands cups his face, pressing your lips against his unmoving ones, “That feels good?”
“Full,” Mingi grits out as Yunho bottoms out, hands squeezing his ass, face contorted in pleasure.
You smile, pressing your lips into the corner of his mouth, “Ready?”
He nods, eyes screwed shut, mouth stuck open like he’d unhinged his jaw. You tighten your legs over his thighs, an elbow planted under you, lifting your hips up to press his tip inside, and with Yunho’s next thrust he’s pushing inside, all the way, all at once. Your eyes blow wide as a shrill sound escapes you, and Yunho’s head picks up over Mingi’s back.
“If you’re loud, I stop,” Yunho grits out. “We don’t need the whole house hearing us.”
Your other arm is clawing at Mingi’s shoulder, so fucking full and stretched out it’s dizzying, you barely process Yunho’s words as Mingi catches your lips with his own. The three of you readjust closer together now that you’re positioned, and with every thrust of Yunho’s hips against Mingi, Mingi fucks into you the same.
“So tight, Min,” Yunho gasps. “Missed this ass, fuck, craved this tight fuckin’ thing.”
He’s beautiful, hair soft and messy, brows quirked in focus as he watches himself drill into Mingi, how his cock disappears, how Mingi sucks him in with each thrust. You’re clinging to Mingi, one arm over his shoulder as your hips fuck back into him, his cock curving into you just right, making you moan into his lips as his tongue steals every sound from your throat, pouring another one right back into yours.
“Faster,” you whimper, eyes lifting. “Please, Yun. More.”
“Never satisfied,” Yunho spits out through his clenched teeth, two hands gripping Mingi’s hips as he fucks into him harder, faster, ricocheting into you, body slamming into the mattress with each thrust. You’re a crying, whimpering mess, clawing into Mingi’s skin as he cries into your mouth, lost in a bubble of pleasure, Mingi’s body locking up with each thrust of Yunho’s hips.
“I’m close,” Mingi whispers, straining. “Fuck, too good, so full, you’re so tight–”
“Cum,” you whisper, hips rolling into each thrust. “Fill me up, baby. Come on.”
Yunho’s hands slide up to his waist, nails biting into his sides, “Hold it.”
Your hips buck into him faster, a pit forming in your stomach as the pleasure builds, catching Mingi’s lips again. Yunho slaps his palm against Mingi’s ass as he feels Mingi buck into you, “Hold it.”
“Can’t!” Mingi cries, “I can’t, I cant, I’m cumming–”
You moan as his cock twitches inside you, still rolling your hips against him as he fills you up, warmth spreading through your lower half. Yunho hisses from behind, “You never fuckin’ listen.”
You smile, dazed and lazy as you stare up at him over Mingi’s back, “Happens every time.”
“Fuck,” Yunho huffs, “wanted to cum inside you, Min.”
You slow your hips as Mingi’s arms waver, shaking on either side of you. “’m sorry,” Mingi says, breathless. “Felt so fucking good.”
You pull your hips off of him as you let go of his shoulder, falling flat against the bed as he crumbles on top of you, Yunho pulling out behind him. Sated, he hums into your shoulder, left hand digging beneath your back, holding you close.
Yunho slips off the condom and pulls you toward him by your ankles, Mingi’s startled enough by the action to roll off of you and onto his back, head turned with eyes half open to watch as Yunho tugs you upward by your hips. Yunho sinks down to sit on his calves, pulling your thighs over his, not wasting a second as he runs his cock through your folds, spreading Mingi’s release. You hiss at the contact, hips bucking into him, digging your elbows beneath you to hold you up. “Kiss me,” you beg, “kiss me while you fuck me, please. Need it.”
His brows furrow, lips parting like you’d just taken your cock down his throat, your words hitting like a pang to his gut. He lines himself up, cock prodding at your entrance as he leans forward, grabbing you by your waist to pull you on top of him, using your thighs on his as leverage to sit yourself over his cock.
Lowering yourself onto him, you lay your hands over his shoulders to attach your lips to his, nothing about it structured or neat as he pushes inch after inch into your heat. You moan into him, whining as you reach the base of him, feeling the full length of him in your fucking guts.
“Big,” you mumble, a whiney whisper. “Wanna cum on your cock, Yunho.”
His fingers tighten around your waist, lifting you up on his cock before slamming you back down, making you cry out into his mouth. “Quiet,” he grunts, then places a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I know it feels good, baby.”
Your fingers claw into his shoulders, “So good, missed your cock, fills me up so fuckin’ perfect, so full.”
He guides you with two hands on your waist, lifting you, lowering you, shifting you into a dirty grind, “Take me so well,” he says before he kisses you again. “Pussy so tight, missed her, missed you.”
You catch his lips, words staggered by each slap of your hips against his, “Don’t fucking leave again.”
His fingers sear your waist, squeezing so hard you’re sure they’ll leave marks behind, making you moan. You grind yourself into him, rolling your hips until his cock reaches the sweet spot inside you, a high pitched noise escaping your lungs before you can stop it.
“Shit,” you cry out, panicking at the pleasure, lowering your voice. “Shit, shit, shit– good, right there, so good.”
Yunho meets you where you roll into him and your eyes drop to watch, his sculpted abdomen flexing under the movement, how you swallow his cock with each grind, it’s too much. Mingi’s behind you before you can process it, feeling his heat before his bare skin, his lips at your neck, teeth grazing your steaming skin, fingers toying at your chest, you fall into him as your hips move on their own.
“Min,” you moan out. “Yunho, fuck– wanna cum, wanna cum,” you’re repeating the words like a mantra, Yunho’s cock kissing your walls, the tip of him running over that spot inside you like it has nowhere else to go.
“Cum,” Mingi says into your skin. “Cum around his cock, let him feel it.”
You grind your teeth, a strangled sound escaping you, so close you could fucking taste it.
“Need more, baby?” Yunho asks, breathless, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back. “My girl, never satisfied, always needs more.”
“Insatiable,” Mingi’s tongue drags along your neck and you nearly fold, the pleasure overwhelming. One of his hands dips down between you, two fingers rubbing at your clit and your eyes blow wide, entire body jerking forward at the touch.
“There she goes,” Yunho smiles and your breath completely catches in your throat, hips stuttering in their grind, he quickly uses two hands on your hips to keep you moving in rhythm. You feel it building impossibly further, your orgasm right below the surface, your skin vibrating, your breath coming out in shallow bursts.
Mingi reaches up, one hard pinch to one of your nipples and you’re falling forward, head on Yunho’s shoulder as your limbs lock, pressure blowing, euphoria consuming every inch of your being. You hear Yunho mumble something haphazardly to Mingi before he’s pushing you backward, holding onto your hipbones as he drills into you, chasing his own high. It’s more than overwhelming, your orgasm never ending, prolonged with each thrust of his cock inside you.
“Mouth,” Yunho bites, and Mingi’s palm clasps over your lips on command. You don’t even realize what sounds are leaving you, that your lungs are even working properly, so consumed by euphoria.
You’re seizing around him, body twitching, core clenching with each thrust of his cock until his hips stutter, emptying himself inside you with consistent, punched strokes so you feel every inch of him, every drop of him as he fills you up.
Mingi releases your mouth when Yunho finally pauses, his hand shaky, chest heaving, cock half-hard again against his thigh. The only sound in the room is your breathing, distant waves crashing ashore, the sound of the breeze blowing through the room, making the curtains dance around the balcony doors.
“I could watch you two forever,” Mingi mumbles, more to himself than to you.
Yunho pulls out slowly, keeping a hand steady cupped over your center, so if you do drip it’s not on San’s comforter. Always thinking ahead, even after sex, when one would think his brain would turn at least a little fuzzy.
You swallow down nothing but air in your dry throat, reaching for the man beside you and the other across from you, “Lay with me.”
“You need to shower,” Yunho counters, running his other hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Or pee, at least. Get this out of you so we can sleep.”
You mumble your discontent, groaning, body spent and tired but so fucking elated at what just transpired. Yunho smiles up at you, “We aren’t at home, little lady, you need to go pee.”
“Little lady?” You and Mingi ask at the same time, mocking him, brows furrowed, smiles amused. You snort, “Try a different nickname.”
“Shut up and go to the bathroom,” Yunho huffs, standing up off the bed, pulling you by your ankles to the edge. Mumbling under his breath, he’s looking at the sheets, “Always something to say.”
“You love it,” you smirk, standing on shaky, tired legs. You wobble, he slides a grounding arm around your waist, you look up at him with smiling eyes, “If I wasn’t such a brat you wouldn’t have anything to punish me for.”
“A well-behaved submissive is a well-trained one,” he’s quick to respond.
You scowl, eyes pointed as you look at him, throwing an arm over his shoulder, “I’m not your submissive.”
“What are you, then?” He asks and you steal your arm back from over his shoulder, ignoring the leakage between your thighs, just to look up at him and see him smirking, face fully amused.
“Not funny,” you grumble. “Mingi will shower with me, you can wait outside.”
“No,” he half-whines the word, still fully amused, leaning into you before he bends at his knees, scooping you from beneath your legs into his arms bridal-style. “We’re all showering together, end of story. Say a prayer that Jihyo and Jongho are asleep.”
You’re giggling at him butt-ass naked in the dark hallway, it seemed Jihyo and Jongho were asleep with how easily you snuck into the bathroom without being caught, Mingi on your heel. Your shower was innocent, soft touches and bubbly soap, exhaustion dancing in the steam, the humor had dissipated and exposed what was left over. The three of you, together again. Whole.
Back in bed, you in the middle, Mingi on your left, Yunho on your right, you didn’t even bother with clothes. The only light came from the still open balcony doors, moonlight acting as a beacon, calming in how it coated the room in a soft pale hue.
“I really did miss you,” Mingi cuts through what felt like an hour of silence, just waves and breeze. “We missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” Yunho’s response is soft, fingers playing in Mingi’s hair above you, you cocooned in the middle of the two.
For the first time, those three little words sat on your tongue, begging to be said. Instead, you ask, “You know what you said? The submissive thing?”
His hand cups your cheek, “I was just kidding, baby.”
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not that. I was wondering… What it’d be like.”
“To be my sub?” His brows raise, tipping your head up to look at him. “Like, for real?”
You smile, “Yes, for real. I’ve wondered since Woo’s going away party, what you’re like when you’re serious about it.”
“You don’t think I’m serious with you?”
“You know you let shit slide,” you narrow your eyes. “A lot slide. I want to experience a day, in public and stuff when you’re being you. In your element.”
Yunho’s eyes slide up to Mingi, “You too, baby?”
Mingi smiles, bashful but honest, nodding. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious, too.”
“You’re both untrained–”
“You’ve taught us a lot,” you cut him off. Rearranging yourself, head pressed into Mingi’s chest so you can see Yunho easier, you urge, “We can do it. Let us try tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yunho.”
“Fine,” his smile is soft, eyes so dreamy it’s hard to comprehend that a man like him could ever be mean. If you hadn’t experienced it, you wouldn’t believe it. You love him mean. You love him nice. You love how he looks at you. You keep the words inside.
“We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”
You didn’t say another word, other than goodnight. You could still hear the waves crashing onto the shore just outside the house, you could smell Yunho’s body wash everywhere, the moon shining down on your bedroom, for the first time in days, everything felt… Peaceful. Normal.
Your heartbeat hasn’t been this even since the day Yunho walked out of your apartment.
Feet twitching, a tickle on your leg, your nose scrunches as consciousness pulls your eyelids apart. You suck in a short breath when you feel warmth on your thigh, the heaviness of a hand, Yunho’s hand, it snaps you awake like someone poured cold water over your head.
“What are you doing?”
His other hand moves your panties to the side, his head already between your legs, which was enough to answer your sleep-induced question. Your thighs parted for him further, arms limp against the bed, you could hear the soft snores from Mingi still fast asleep beside you.
A moan passes softly through your lips as his tongue makes contact with your center, slipping between your folds, lips swirling around your clit. The fingers curling into your thigh tells you to shut up, and you listen by slotting your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes screwed shut.
Fuck, you’ve missed his hands on you, you’ve missed his mouth, you’ve missed the way he tells you what to do without saying a fucking word. You’ve missed everything about him.
He pulls away only to pull your panties down your thighs, throwing them somewhere on the floor before both hands push into the plush of your thighs, spreading them wider than before. The mewl that leaves your lips, the way your leg bumps into Mingi’s sleeping body has his eyes cracking open, confusion and sleepiness present in the way he blinks himself awake.
“Damn,” Mingi groans, stretching out his limbs as Yunho devours you all over again. “I’ve missed this.”
Mingi leans over, pressing his lips sleepily into your neck, tongue poking out to slide up onto your jaw, your mind clouded with a whirlwind of pleasure. Too long since you’ve had two bodies on you, focused on you, pleasuring you, days had felt like months.
Yunho’s hand left your thigh to grab onto Mingi’s ankle, pulling him downward, a cue to get off of you without him saying a word. Mingi shuffled himself down the bed until Yunho grabbed his already stiff length over his briefs, Mingi pushed them over his hips and down his thighs, eager to feel Yunho’s touch like it was the first time.
Yunho’s fingers slip through your folds to gather the wetness onto his hand just to use it in gliding his hand over Mingi’s length, which had both of you squirming in pleasure, light moans blending together. He spits on your center before sitting up on his knees, slipping two fingers inside you, the other hand still pumping Mingi’s length, he used the same rhythm on both of you, where you both stared up at him with parted lips, furrowed brows, glassy eyes, you think that maybe you were dreaming, or maybe you’d gone to heaven in your sleep.
“Missed me, huh?”
You and Mingi nod erratically, your hips jerking into his touch, he wore a cocky smirk and half-lidded eyes that told you he missed you just as much. Having the two of you splay out beneath him, victim to his hands, to his hold over you entirely, he had you exactly where he wanted you.
His fingers curled into you at the same time as his wrist twisted around Mingi’s length, movements he knew drove you close to the edge, you could feel the pit in your stomach forming just from how deep his fingers hit inside you. He knew you so well, too well, he could pull you to orgasm so fast, even at god knows what time in the morning. From the rising sun outside of your balcony, you knew it was early.
“You want to be with me for real?” Raised eyebrows, temptation in his voice, a depth to his eyes that only came out when he was in the mood to have you crying beneath him, the ghost of fear nipped at your spine. You nodded.
“You– fuck,” Mingi gasped, hips bucking into Yunho’s hand. “You know we do.”
“Then you’ll learn what it’s like to be with me,” staring down at you beneath his brows, his jawline sharp from where you looked up at him, you gulped at the sight of gravity in his eyes. Fingers hitting the spongy spot inside you repeatedly, it was hard to feel the fear through the pleasure, to understand the weight of his words as he pulled you so damn close to the finish line.
“Yes,” you whispered, back arching, eyes closing, your orgasm so close you could taste it.
Mingi wasn’t far behind, his fingers curling into the bedsheets, his legs trembling, small gasps and mewls falling from his lips one after another, it was ridiculous how easily he had the two of you rendered stupid before him.
Lifting yourself onto your elbows, your voice shaky, you cry, “I-I’m close.”
“Me too, don’t stop, Yunho,” Mingi moans from beside you, sounding weary, teetering on the edge.
Yunho smiles, a flicker of something in his eye that assured you the fear in your spine was right. His fingers scissor you open like he could make you cum with his eyes closed. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t give you permission, and you push a heavy breath through your lips like it’d help pause your impending orgasm while you wait for the green light.
“I’ve been too lenient with you,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “I did some thinking, too, and I think you two forgot who I am, why you asked me to share your bed in the first place.”
Your eyes blow wide, panic surging through you, “Yunho, I’m gonna cum–”
He slips his fingers out of you at the same time as he pulls his hand away from Mingi’s cock, your thighs snap together, a curse slipping from your lips. A too verbal cry leaves Mingi’s throat, his cock spurting ropes of white cum onto his hips, his stomach, his orgasm completely ruined.
“We’ll see if you still want me by the end of today,” Yunho is smiling while ignoring Mingi’s heaving chest and teary eyes, proud of himself, happy with what he had just done to the two of you. Your eyes are dancing between Yunho and your boyfriend that has tears slipping past his waterline, his jaw dropped in shock, in anguish of what had just been done to him. You wished you could have seen his raw reaction, the moment his orgasm was denied.
“I didn’t forget everything that happened yesterday, did you?” He asks, eyebrows raised, eyes flickering between you and Mingi. “Today will be different.”
Your body was on fucking fire– fear, arousal, the orgasm that was still on the brink beneath your hipbones, you didn’t know which emotion to pay attention to first. You tried to speak, some form of rebuttal, every string of words came out jumbled, completely incoherent. Yunho grinned. Mingi whimpered.
“Clean yourselves up and come to breakfast,” Yunho climbs off the bed, running a hand through his black locks as he makes for the door. “Don’t touch each other, don’t touch yourselves. I’ll know if you do.”
You swear the beach is hotter than it was yesterday.
All thirteen of you, after having breakfast out on the deck, packed up for another beach day that was thankfully right in San’s metaphorical backyard. No one was acting out of the ordinary, it seemed safe that no one heard the three of you getting edged by Yunho’s hands just a few hours ago, or getting split open by his cock last night, but you wondered if anyone could pick up how fucking frustrated you and your boyfriend were come this morning.
You obeyed Yunho, you didn’t touch each other after he left this morning, instead you kept your distance in your bedroom while you got ready for breakfast, as Mingi took a cold shower, letting ice fill his veins as he replayed his ruined orgasm in his mind.
Yunho was careful around you at breakfast, around your friends, only meeting your eye when he felt yours on him, while you were daydreaming, fantasizing, watching how his veiny hands picked up his utensils, how his pretty pink lips wrapped around the food he ate, how his body bent when he stood up from the kitchen table, the low rumble in his tired voice as he spoke to Hongjoong…
“This one.”
After escaping a calm breakfast, you were upstairs, getting ready for the impending beach day. Yunho had picked out a pair of swim shorts for Mingi, ones with a longer inseam, and had ruffled through all the bikinis you brought with you, choosing one less skimpy, but still as revealing as a bikini would be.
He handed you a black triangle bikini with small, white polka dots printed on the nylon, the bottoms were string-tied, the back ruched at the middle. Thrill danced in your blood at the thought of wearing something he chose for you, an invisible display of dominance to the people who would see you in it. He hasn’t done this yet. This was new.
“We’re playing today,” he sat back on the bed, you and Mingi standing before him, backs straight, heels touching, as per Yunho’s request. You were already buzzing with adrenaline, excitement, anticipation. “If it’s too much, you know what to say, but I’ll be expecting obedience, without question. Understood?”
You and Mingi nod furiously– he clicks his tongue.
“Yes, sir,” scrambles out of both of your mouths simultaneously. You’ve never spoken about or decided on a title formally, you’ve only said the word to Yunho playfully a few times, just for him to respond ‘be careful what you wish for.’
You were more than careful, it’s indescribable how the title makes you feel. Yunho has taken care of you both from the start, slipped into a role on his own when he started spending time with you, but today he’d officially take on the role fully, no shortcuts, no excuses.
There were times you’ve gone grocery shopping or went out to eat and he’s told you to not speak unless spoken to, to only walk on the right side of him, Mingi on his left. Something like this lit a fire in your belly, playing in front of your friends when you and Mingi knew Yunho didn’t want them to know anything about you three, you’d have to be discreet, yet still obey him completely, it made you nervous. Excited to comply, to appease him. Still excited, but nervous about what happens if you don't.
This was Yunho, unshielded, unapologetically himself, this was Yunho showing you who he is, what he wants. Your request had turned into a test, one you deeply wanted to pass; because in your mind, passing felt like the last obstacle. That if you passed, he’d have no reason to deny you any longer, no further reason to say no.
Because he didn’t answer you last night with a yes, in your mind, it was still a no.
Excitement flared in your eyes when he nodded, pleased, “Good.”
When he laid out the rules for today, they seemed simple.
You’re to sit with good posture on his left, Mingi on his right. Easy.
There shouldn’t ever be sand on his towel, if there is, you or Mingi clean it off when you see it. The thought of the two of you doting on him makes your heart skip a beat.
You’re both to make sure he is never without a drink, you get him another when he’s finished the one he has. He’s testing your ability to pay attention, to focus on him only. He should be at the forefront of your mind all day— as if he already doesn’t live there.
If you need anything, if you want anything, you ask permission first. Submission, structure.
No complaining about the sand, the heat, if you or Mingi are in distress, you tell him properly, without whining. He wants you polite, but neither you nor Mingi were one to complain about anything, anyhow.
You both are to stay within arm’s reach of him all day. You want to be by his side, anyways, but being expected to… you would pass his test with flying colors.
You didn’t ask what happens if you didn’t follow them, maybe you should’ve. It feels full circle from Wooyoung’s going away party all that time ago, when you were curious about the date he brought, why she acted the way she did. How a part of you craved it, when you didn’t even know what it was.
The sun scorched the sand, inescapable, a dry heat that was only eased by the salty breeze that snuck past your bodies every now and then, so sporadically you could barely call it relief. You had created a small village on the beach, multicolored towels laid out in a line, beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers with liquor, bags full of snacks, a large speaker that played nostalgic music over the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Looking at the scene made you laugh, you could remember coming to the beach with the same damn people with nothing but a towel and a handle of vodka.
A lifetime ago.
You sat with your knees bent in a pretzel, back straight, palms in your lap. A drink was buried in the sand next to you, something sour, Tzuyu mixed it, she claimed one was enough to keep you buzzed for a while. That was fine with you, sunglasses on your face, watching the waves fold onto the wet sand at the shoreline, head tilted, humming to a song you knew all too well while it danced with the breeze.
Yunho bent down beside you on the empty, clean baby blue towel, the corners still stiff and bent from how it was folded in San’s linen closet, the print on it still bright, likely new. Your chin perked up with his presence, sunglasses perched on his nose, black hair already damp with sweat and mussed on his forehead, sun-kissed and angelic. Your mouth watered before he uttered a word.
“You have sunscreen on?” Short, curt, filled with expectation. It wasn’t just the simple question forcing a rush of adrenaline to sweep through you, heart rate picking up, fingertips twitching against your skin, it was his tone; strong, composed, yet somehow condescending, as if you couldn’t remember to put your own sunscreen on.
You nodded, the need to appease him curling low in your gut, the desire to make him pleased. His tongue clicked, words. You sputtered, “Yes, I put some on before we left the house.”
“That was an hour and a half ago,” he sighed, running long, milky fingers through the damp black locks on his head. “I’ll get some.”
He used his palms braced on his thighs to stand again and your neck twisted to Mingi on the far towel, raising your brows.
Mingi gave you a small shrug, Here we go.
You glanced around the group, taking in everyone’s whereabouts. San and Jongin laid out on beach chairs beneath the sun, carved abdomens dipped in honey, shiny and slicked by sunscreen and sweat. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were down by the shore, mid-conversation, hats blanketing their hair, ankle-deep in the water. Tzuyu, Jihyo and Sana laid in a line to your left, gossiping, drinking, bodies a contrast to the towels beneath them.
Wooyoung had dragged Jongho and Yeosang into the sand off to your right, convincing the two men to bury him. You think Wooyoung started drinking when his eyes opened this morning.
You felt Yunho’s presence at your back like a shadow, a promise of unfinished business. He leaned in tight, next to your ear, “This drink is the only one you’ll have today.”
Your breath hitched in your throat, but you nodded. You didn’t ask permission before drinking it. His silence, his lack of movement, snapped you back into place, back straightening. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
Fuck. You could genuinely moan at his tone, the way he’s biting his words, silvery in what he expects of you, the power he holds in two small words. Maybe he wants you all fuzzy and moldable, like jelly, testing your ability to control yourself and keep your focus on him.
“Yes, sir,” it’s a mere mumble under your breath, head tucked down, just low enough for him to hear. You can feel Mingi’s eyes on you, you wonder if he heard, too, or if your cowering body is lost on him.
Yunho hums in satisfaction, “Sit on your knees, I’ll get your back.”
You don’t hesitate to tuck your knees under your body, ass pressed against your calves, the breeze on your now exposed tummy making you feel bare. Exposed in front of your friends. You can’t believe how it sends a deep pang of arousal through your entire fucking body. You hear the bottle open, lotion squirting into his hands, rubbing it together in his palms before he touches you.
It’s like lightning hit you, how your entire body jerks at his touch, how his palm pressed to your skin makes your thighs clench on command, excitement thrumming beneath your skin. You can blame it on this morning, how he left you tightly wound and needy, the rules swimming in your mind, but the truth was that any time his skin touches yours it’s electrifying, it reminds you of all the times he’s fucked you brainless, it makes you ache for more.
He rubs the lotion onto your back slowly, massaging it in, you couldn’t tell if his movements were erotic or if your brain had dropped to the gutter. Over your hips, the sides of your waist, the tops of your shoulders, the backs of your arms, each movement was controlled, slow in a way that let you feel each point of pressure, how he was studying you as he worked the lotion onto your skin. Your neck inevitably bends, head drooping, shoulders slouching, despite the lotion being cold, his hands on you were so warm. Your thighs untensed, knees breaking apart, lungs emptying themselves into the summer air, it felt so fucking good to have his hands on you.
One palm smoothes up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck, the other hand squeezing your hip over the waistband of your bottoms. “Up,” he bites, the singular word a nasty whisper. “Pathetic for you to lose your composure over sunscreen.”
You were grateful for your sunglasses– no one could see your eyes fluttering at his words. Your back straightens, knees kissing once more, hands folded in your lap. “Good girl,” his voice is still too low for anyone else to hear, if anyone was paying attention. It probably seemed like Yunho was just being friendly, helpful, putting sunscreen on your hard to reach places.
It didn’t look like that at all to Jongho and Yeosang, sunglasses shading their eyes as they scooped sand onto Wooyoung’s body, hands going motionless with each curve of Yunho’s fingers on your skin.
“Are you seeing this too?” Jongho asked the older man, eyebrows furrowed, his voice laced with confusion.
Yeosang nods, “And Mingi’s just watching. I’d lose my shit if you touched Tzuyu like that.”
“I’d fucking kill you if you looked at Jihyo like that,” Jongho agrees. Their eyes linger, watching how Yunho leans in close to your ear, how your back straightens, body locking all over again.
Wooyoung’s head peeks up from the sand, “What am I missing?”
“Do you think she’s cheating on Mingi?” Yeosang asks, sitting back on his heels.
“What?” Wooyoung sits up straight, the layer of wet sand on top of him cracking and falling in chunks onto his lap. The two other men groaned, knowing they were going to have to put it back on him in a moment's time.
Jongho shakes his head, “Mingi’s watching, no way she’d cheat, and no way Yunho would do that to him. Plus, he's never been territorial.”
Wooyoung’s neck stretches forward like he was squinting to see beneath his sunglasses. “Mingi doesn’t care if you flirt, I think giving her a back massage in front of the entire group is different.” His head tilts to the side. “But yeah, he really is just watching. Huh.”
“Interesting,” Yeosang’s lips scrunch, but he brings his head of red hair back to Wooyoung. “Lay down and let us restart, dumbass.”
After getting a slew of pictures of Wooyoung’s bronzed body buried beneath the sand, a mermaid tail packed over his legs, fake abs drawn onto his abdomen, the still-giggling men came back over to the group, covered in sand head to toe.
Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair, shooting back a mouthful from his can, “Anyone wanna go swimming?”
Jongho and Yeosang were behind him, sweaty and beautiful, sand on their exposed bodies like a second layer of skin. You blinked at them, silent, because you didn’t wanna swim, part of you was scared that if you stood, someone would notice the patch of wetness on your bikini bottoms, despite them being black. Your fear held no bounds, no logic, but it was enough for you not to move a muscle.
Mingi leaned into Yunho, whispering something in his ear.
“Can I go?” Too low for your ears to catch, Mingi gave Yunho puppy eyes from below his shades, his voice sweet as candy.
Yunho gave him a short nod, forgoing a rule for Mingi’s appropriate execution of another, your boyfriend hopped up, a smile on his face, following behind his friends down to the shore. His dimpled lower back above the green shorts, how they scrunched around his thighs, the muscles in his shoulders too defined as he jogged away, fuck. You felt like an animal. A perverted, sex-crazed freak with the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth at the sight of him, how your toes dug into the towel beneath you.
You laid on your back instead, trying to rid your mind of the thoughts, of the expectations over your head. Taking a deep breath to ground yourself, to stop being so fucking horny on the blazing beach with all your friends around you.
Yunho’s empty can pressed against your arm.
You turned your head to see his jaw in a steady line, his brows raised. Shit. You stood up, walking over to the cooler in three steps, grabbing him another drink. You opened it for him, he thanked you as you handed it to him, you smiled as you took the empty one.
Even doing something this small, this insignificant, had goosebumps raising on your body. Doing it for him.
Yunho was facing you when you got back to your towel, laying back again, hands laying at your sides. His voice was quiet, soft in a way that meant he was just checking in, “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” you answer in a smooth breath.
“Give me something better than that,” he frowns, voice lowering in volume, “I don’t want to ask you to throw a color all day, if I ask you how you’re feeling, give me words. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
You sit up on your elbows, sunglasses sliding down to the bridge of your nose. The first word that comes to mind, “Stimulated.” You smile, head tilting, “Hot, a little frustrated. Mostly eager.”
He smiles, “That’s good, right where I want you.” He leans back on his own elbows, his can buried in the sand beside him, between you. “Sometimes I think you were meant for this, y’know. You take structure well, you perform easily with it.”
“That’s because I enjoy it,” you respond, words coming easily, the alcohol making your lips loose. “More than I’m supposed to, I think. I like it the other way around too, sometimes.”
He quiets, watching Mingi out on the water. “You both switch. I wonder what I’ll do with you both sometimes.”
Your lip curls in gratitude as you lean your head towards him. “You’ve changed since spending time with us too, you know. Maybe you don’t need to do anything, maybe the three of us are fine how we are.”
He turns his head tight, but doesn’t say anything. You stare through your shades, holding your ground, hoping he feels what you said, and doesn’t cower in fear because what you have is real. He jerks his head to the towel next to him, voice unyielding once again, “Over here.”
You push yourself up without a word, cleaning off your towel before you grab your drink and move to Mingi’s towel, laying back down, all without question or hesitation. Yunho smiles, pride etched into the curve of his lips, “Good.”
The praise sets you ablaze all over again.
When Mingi returns, water dripping down his body, dark hair pushed back by his fingers, Yunho already had a towel in hand. Up by the umbrella, you watched with your head tilted back as Yunho ordered him over by just a nod of his head.
“Water feels so good,” he beamed, sandy feet walking between your towels, shedding droplets of water from his swim shorts as he walked past. He didn’t even notice you’d switched spots, or if he did, he didn’t say anything.
He reached a hand out to grab the towel from Yunho’s grip, but the older man shook his head, “I got it.”
Mingi stood dumbfounded for a moment, but turned around to face the three boys’ gaze who walked up from the water, also dripping saltwater, coated in sunshine. You were sure Mingi’s skin was burning as Yunho dried him off, slowly wiping the towel across his wet skin, on his hair. You bit your cheek. For someone who didn’t want anyone to know, he wasn’t exactly being discreet, but you supposed no one noticed Yunho at the going away party, either.
“They’re so weird,” Sana mumbled under her breath, on her stomach, elbows holding the weight of her upper body. She dipped her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose, watching Mingi and Yunho across the sand.
Jihyo and Tzuyu turned over on their towels, looking at Sana to see where her eyes were locked, then focusing in on the scene before them.
Tzuyu smiled, “Yunho’s so sweet, it must be nice for them to be so close.”
Jihyo squinted. The way Yunho’s hands dragged up Mingi’s body, his fingers curled over Mingi’s shoulder, how he leaned in to say something in his ear. She had a feeling since that morning, catching Yunho in your apartment, but brushed it off because you wouldn’t lie about something like that. Especially not to her. She would never judge you for having a threesome.
But Mingi’s head dipped down, eyes on his own crotch, mumbling a few words in response, and Jihyo’s lip curled. There’s no fucking way. She turned her head, “I caught Yunho at their apartment, you know.”
Sana and Tzuyu’s heads snapped to Jihyo, eyebrows raised, silently saying continue. Jihyo sighed, “Yunho was shirtless, towel on his waist, he had just gotten out of the shower. In their living room. Mingi had on boxers, she looked just-fucked. They said he was only there to shower because he had no water.”
“Doesn’t he live right around the corner from Joong and Hwa?” Sana asked. “If he didn’t have any water, why didn’t he just go there for a quick shower instead of traveling across the damn country?”
“They’re close,” Tzuyu leaned in, forever devil's advocate. “Would you go to Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s for a shower if Ji was home?”
“First of all, girls are different,” Sana shook her head. “Also, yes. They have a waterfall shower, and those jets in the walls for your body, plus Seonghwa uses that really good body wash from—”
“Exactly!” Jihyo cuts in. “Literally exactly my point. There’s something going on there, right? I’m not crazy?”
“Definitely not crazy,” Sana shook her head again. “Remember how Yunho snapped at me last night, too? When has he ever done something like that?”
“Maybe he was tired,” Tzuyu’s voice was small, like she didn’t believe the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “I don’t know girls… They've been together forever. Do you really think Yunho would be involved with them… intimately?”
Jihyo shakes her head, lips scrunched, disappointed that you’d keep something so important from her. She even insinuated it, and you said no. “Who knows what goes on with them anymore. It’s not like we get any details.”
Yunho is more than pleased when Mingi cleans off the left side towel for Yunho, then the center one for himself, after Yunho nodded his head in silent direction, instruction in his body language only.
You were buzzing. You were both following instruction cleanly, discreetly, you were passing with flying fucking colors, you wondered if your ability to obey made him any more inclined to be your boyfriend. Your boyfriend’s boyfriend. You wish you could be inside his brain so desperately.
Yunho stood, brushing the sand off his multicolored, patterned shorts, throwing his sunglasses back on the towel. You sat up involuntarily, knowing if he moved, you moved with him.
He didn’t look back as he started for the shore. You stood, Mingi following, within arm’s reach as you flanked him down the beach, to the water. None of you knew you had eyes on you the entire time. Or that Wooyoung approached San the moment you walked away.
You minded your surroundings as you breached the shore, no sign of Hongjoong or Seonghwa, they must be on a walk, or back at the house. You’ve been so laser focused on Yunho and Mingi you almost forgot everyone else was there.
“Min said the water’s nice,” Yunho looked to you, then over to Mingi on his other side, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Wanna swim?”
You nodded, even if you didn’t have a choice. You wondered where the line stood with things like this, if you didn’t want to swim, if the urge to obey wasn’t so heavy. Would you be punished? For something measly like swimming?
Ice wraps around your ankles, your calves, your body shaking, hissing the deeper you went into the sea. Mingi and Yunho dove in, completely unaffected, fully submerged by the time you got up to your hips. “Fuck, it’s cold, fuck,” you had your arms tucked tight to your chest, slowly wading deeper into the water while they swam a few feet out, laying under the sun for hours would have made the warmest water freezing.
“How the hell are you guys so deep?” You yell across the waves that crashed against your abdomen, water reaching your belly button. “It’s fucking cold.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Mingi teased, grinning, hair melted around his face, flat against the curves of his cheekbones.
“And watch your mouth,” Yunho added, also teasing, smiling, on his back as he floated in the water. You scoffed, then faced the water before you, you’d have to rip the bandaid off if you were ever gonna be comfortable in the water.
“Just go underwater, baby,” Mingi called again. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
You scowled, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “It’s too fucking cold.”
Yunho’s smile widens, listening to your complaints, drinking them all in. You hissed again, dipping your fingers into the sea, up to your forearms, legs pushing against the moving water to get deeper. Up to your waist, below the tie of your bikini top, you finally said fuck it and sank beneath the surface.
Holding your nose, you gasped when you came back out to the salty air colder, ice consuming you head to toe. The two men just feet away cheered.
“Come here, baby, swim over,” Mingi called out, ushering you over with one hand. Breathless from the cold, you wiped the saltwater out of your eyes, blinking through the sting as you swam closer to them. Clinging onto your boyfriend’s front for life, he tucked one arm under your ass as you moved his hair out of his face. He smiled proudly, eyes bronzy beneath the sun, “It’s nice, right?”
You still shivered in his hold, but smiled playfully, he’s so handsome it hurts. “Fuck, fuck you.”
“Curse again,” Yunho taunts from a foot away, swimming closer, affection in his voice. His eyes go over your head, scanning the beach behind you, before they land back on you, just as icy as the water. “See what happens.”
“I’m sorry,” you whine, “it’s cold.”
“I’m in the water with you, quit whining,” he muses, coming closer. “I’ll give you something to whine about. Is that what you want?”
Arousal licks up your spine, you twitch in Mingi’s hold, but you shake your head. Yunho’s head tilts, “You sure, baby? You’ve been fidgeting all day, bet you’re feeling empty by now, aren’t you?”
You’ve been doing so good. Keeping up with his rules, being obedient, focused, you didn’t think your arousal was noticeable at all. You shake your head again even if Mingi could feel your thighs clench, “No. No, I’m fine.”
Yunho’s hands tug on your hips below the water, turning you until your back is pressed against Mingi’s chest, slotting himself between your floating legs. Mingi keeps his hands on your waist as your breath goes shaky, eyes widening, “Y-Yunho they can see—”
“Mingi is blocking us, they can’t see this far out,” Yunho cuts you off. “This body is mine. You don’t get to question me, you don’t get to worry. That’s my job.”
Even in the water, being held up by your boyfriend, he still feels so fucking big in front of you. You swallow, looking up at him through lashes coated in saltwater, voice as small as you felt, “O-okay.”
“You take what I give you, when I choose to give it,” he tilts his head, hands sliding down your thighs, thumbs curling into your plush skin, feeling so soft beneath the water. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” you nod, and he grins. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, hands sliding up your hips, up to your waist, over Mingi’s hands. He breaks away just to press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, too.
Your heart is racing in your chest. Intimidation, adrenaline, the press of cold surrounding you, concern about someone seeing you.
He leans back, keeping himself close. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Horny,” you blurt and he laughs. You shake your head, smile on your face, “Overwhelmed.”
His eyes look up to Mingi behind you, who responds, “Also horny. Stretched thin.”
“Color?”
“Green,” you and Mingi respond simultaneously without missing a beat.
“Don’t be scared,” Yunho shakes his head, grabbing your wrists lightly, sliding them onto his abdomen. “Do you trust me?”
You nod, “Yes, sir.”
His eyes jump to Mingi who didn’t realize Yunho was talking to him too, in a rush he responds, “Yes, sir.”
“Then make me cum.”
Mingi keeps a knee beneath you as his hands race to Yunho’s waistband, reaching in to feel Yunho’s cock that wasn’t even hard. Mingi looks up at Yunho who smiles, “The water’s real cold.”
At the shoreline, Hongjoong and Seonghwa had almost returned from their walk, fingers interlocked, legs moving at the same pace, mirroring each other’s movements. A mile down the beach, a mile back, the sun was warm, the water cooled them down, they loved everything about the beach. They’d get married on the beach, one day, soon.
Standing in the shallow water, arms stretched by how Seonghwa kicks about the waves and sand, Hongjoong stops him. “Baby, Hwa.” Seonghwa looks up, his attention grabbed, Hongjoong’s chin dips in the direction of the sea, a little ways out from where they stood, “Is that Yunho out there with them?”
Seonghwa puts a hand atop his eyes, shielding his vision, squinting beneath his glasses. “I think so. Maybe they stopped fighting.”
A theory the two had going from the time you’ve spent at San’s beach house so far, one they discussed before going to bed last night, a silly question from Hongjoong’s mouth that Seonghwa couldn’t believe he caught on to, too. From your reactions when choosing rooms to the bonfire yesterday to breakfast this morning, Hongjoong and Seonghwa have been keeping an eye on you three, reading your body language, your interactions.
“Oh shit,” Hongjoong’s jaw dropped when Yunho leaned in to kiss you. “Oh shit,” he smacked Seonghwa’s arm when Yunho kissed Mingi, too.
“What? What did you see?” Seonghwa is leaning in, bending forward, fidgeting where he stood, angling his head around to see.
“They kissed, Hwa,” Hongjoong is whispering, his voice coated in sheer disbelief, “they fucking kissed!”
“Who kissed?” Seonghwa raises himself on his tippy toes as if he wasn’t already taller than his boyfriend who could see clearly, “Joong! Who kissed?”
“Yunho kissed both of them,” Hongjoong’s hand moved to Seonghwa’s forearm, “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit,” Seonghwa whispers, a small mumble, his eyes widening beneath his sunglasses. “No- no, what are they doing now?”
Hongjoong breaks out in a wide grin, before a disbelieving laugh punches through his lips. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In public? In ocean water? People pee in there. Fish pee in there.”
“I feel like we’re intruding,” Seonghwa shakes his head, turning away. “We’re definitely not supposed to see this. We shouldn’t watch. This is an invasion of privacy.”
“They’re hooking up on the beach! They’re lucky there’s no one else out here.”
“This section is private,” Seonghwa turns away fully. “San owns it, or something like that, I don’t know how it works. Plus, we can’t see what’s happening under the water, they could be—”
“You mean to tell me they aren’t jerking him off right now?” Hongjoong’s orange brows bend over the frame of his sunglasses, his smile completely amused.
Seonghwa cringes, but turns around again to meet Hongjoong’s grinning cheeks. He looks out in the water, studying, frowning, “I don’t know if she’s doing anything. It might just be Mingi and Yunho.”
“Okay, but still,” Hongjoong smacks his teeth. “They’re seconds away from fucking in the ocean. Am I wrong?”
Seonghwa’s lips flatten, “Don’t say anything. They didn’t seem okay yesterday and today they’re inseparable, so clearly they’re figuring something out, and keeping it private.”
Hongjoong pouts, “Boo.”
Seonghwa smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s lips, “Do the right thing, my love.”
“You’re right,” Hongjoong sighs, looking out in the water again. "That's so juicy, though. In the middle of the ocean for anyone to see is crazy.”
You feel dizzy on your walk back up. Frustration curls low in your gut, a pestering weed left alone for too long, growing at a rapid pace through your veins, into your limbs, your chest. You needed to get off. Your composure was running scarily thin.
“Can I go to the bathroom when we get back up?” You ask Yunho, fingers laced with Mingi’s, both walking behind him, you on his left side, Mingi on his right.
“Are you gonna touch yourself?” He looks over his shoulder, brows raised.
You shake your head, “No, sir. Just need to pee.”
He nods, small, but permission-granting.
You didn’t say anything to anyone as you walked past the group, up to the house, to the outhouse tucked into the side of the property. It was more like a shack, no roof, thin bamboo walls to separate the toilet from the shower, nothing was enclosed except for the main door which was latched shut.
You eased a breath as you put the black steel hook through the matching loop, running your hands through your hair, eyes squeezing shut while the throbbing between your thighs becomes too much to bear in the silence of the bathroom.
Just for cursing.
Just for complaining about the water being cold.
He’s mean. He’s so fucking mean. You asked for this, he reminded you three times, but the words that left his mouth, so degrading, so teasing, all while being passed between them like a fucking doll. All while neither of them touched you. That was almost worse than having your orgasm ripped from you this morning, watching, listening to them pleasure each other, while being on the sidelines but also right fucking between them, you don’t know if you can do it.
You don’t know if you can take him like this. Mean, arrogant, purposely denying you pleasure because you haven’t earned it yet. You’ve been good all day. You deserve it.
You sit on the toilet with furrowed brows, knees kissing, toes touching the wood beneath you. Your clit cries for attention, throbbing, buzzing, there’s a streak of wetness in your bikini bottoms that was too fucking slick to be washed away by the ocean. Your body feels tight, wound-up, aching for attention.
You could probably get away with it if you touched yourself. He’s not in the bathroom with you, he’s down at the shore with Mingi, with your friends, he’d never know. Your thighs clench at the thought, it wouldn’t even take long. You could probably get off in thirty seconds. Your jaw clenches, fingers curling to fists on top of your thighs. Don’t do it, your subconscious screamed at you. He’ll know.
You swallowed, taking a deep, grounding breath. Your need to obey, to please him, outweighed the ache. At least that’s what you told yourself while you wiped. You opened the latch after washing your hands to be met with Yunho standing outside the door. You jumped, a gasp leaving your lips, “Shit, you scared me.”
“Give me your hand.”
You stared at him dumbfounded before the instinct kicked in. He pulled your fingers to his nose as soon as you lifted your palm, sniffing deeply. Just his fucking touch made your thighs clench.
“You didn’t touch yourself,” he says it like he’s surprised.
Biting your lip, you shake your head. “No, sir.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, moving to push past you and you want to scream. He’s even denying you a kiss to your fucking lips?!
“I can’t do it anymore,” you whisper.
He leans back, brows furrowed. “Can’t do what?”
“I need you to touch me,” your voice cracks on touch. “I need you to kiss me, I need you to fix whatever is happening to me right now. I’m gonna freak the fuck out.”
His eyes thin, jaw settling and god you want to sit on his face. “You don’t need anything.”
“Yunho,” you fall forward, forehead pressing against his still-wet chest, hands landing on his hips, the soft skin just above his swim shorts. “I need you. I can’t take it anymore.”
His neck cranes side to side, a heavy sigh pushing through his lips, his hand landing on top of your hair, fingers massaging at your scalp. “I’m teaching you submission,” he says into your hair, his voice steady. “It’s what you asked for. This is what it would be like. You can say red if you want to stop.”
Red feels like giving up, failing the test. You’re frustrated, but not enough to say the three lettered word that would end it all. You’re wound tight, clit still throbbing for attention, but the need to impress him aches worse.
You stare at him blankly, saying nothing. His lips curve, standing back a step. “You have your answer then.”
“Wait,” you interject, pleading with your hands on his chest. “Why did Mingi get to cum, then? How is he any more well-behaved than I am?”
“You didn’t follow the rules,” he shrugs, answering plainly. “I don’t have to give you a reason, if I don’t want you to cum, then you don’t cum. Your body is mine to do as I see fit.”
“I can’t,” you whine, hands going into your roots, frustrated. You don’t even know what was going to follow the two words, what’s left to say after that.
“Stop whining,” he bites. “It’s ugly, and you’re not ugly.”
Your bottom lip quivers, leaning into him, hiding your frustrated face. “I’ve been good.”
“And that’s ending now, I guess.” “Yunho.”
“Are you acting like this because you want to get punished?” Two hands on your cheeks, he pulls you away from his chest, forcing you to look up at him. “Purposely whining to piss me off, even when I gave you clear, concise instructions for the day?”
You shake your head, ears tipping with heat. You can feel the heat everywhere. Shame, arousal, they blend together with the need to appease him, to impress him, you’re fighting against your own instincts.
“Then listen,” he snaps. “That’s the last time I’m going to say it.”
Jongin sees you as he leaves the house. He grabbed his keys from the rack in the kitchen after the group decided to go out for an early dinner, a place that served bar-food just down the street. You, standing with your head in Yunho’s chest, until he grabs you by your cheeks and tilts your head backward, talking to you… sternly? He stays pocketed behind the tall pampas grass, watching through leaves, his heart picking up in his chest. Is he catching something he isn’t supposed to?
Somehow, he moves far enough to where neither of you see him, and makes his way back down to the beach. He has to tell San, he has to tell Mingi– should he even get involved? Considering what Wooyoung told him and San earlier, there’s a chance Mingi is in on it, too.
“Got our keys,” he smiled briefly at San. “We should wait until they get back.”
San lifts a brow, “Did you see them? Any treachery?”
Jongin shakes his head quickly, not exactly sure why his gut tells him to lie. “I saw him inside, she was outside. No treachery to be seen.”
San’s lift lips in distaste. “Boring.”
Jongin feels bad lying to his boyfriend of three years, the man who changed everything about himself for Jongin, the yin to his yang. But this felt out of his control, a little too heavy for the friend group to be throwing around so easily, it's more than gossip. You, Mingi, you’ve been together for so long… longer than he’s known San. From what he’s learned, you’ve been together longer than any of the couples here.
Except for Hongjoong and Seonghwa. Maybe. He’d have to ask San for clarification on that one.
It wasn’t long until you and Yunho were bouncing back down the beach, wide grins on your faces and damn, his conscience feels heavy after lying. You bend down to press a kiss on Mingi’s lips and the way he grins with stars in his eyes tells Jongin enough. He’d keep his mouth closed for now. But if you and Yunho were any more obvious, if you take another risk— maybe someone else wouldn’t be as nice.
There’s bamboo everywhere. Sand under your feet, surf boards lining the baby blue, wooden walls, the roof coated in thatch, the tiki bar–cafe-restaraunt whatever the fuck was the pinnacle of everything Haos claims to be. An escape, another world, somewhere the wealthy pride themselves in vacationing, it reminded you to breathe. To enjoy everything around you, your friends’ laughter, how the sun just beginning to sink was now far less brutal, the way Mingi and Yunho both had a claiming hand on either one of your thighs under the long, wooden picnic table.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” with one hand on either of your shoulders, Yunho walked in the center of you and Mingi in the parking lot, one step behind you after you climbed out of Jongin’s Jeep.
You were still playing. Stomach still churning, body still wound tight, you wished you could force yourself to believe that you wouldn’t explode if someone didn’t touch you soon. Still embarrassed over your outburst earlier, not being able to handle what you asked of him, most of you was glad he didn’t give in– even if arousal kept your body temperature heated to a low-grade fever.
Mingi, free as a bird, was giggling to himself at something Wooyoung said across from you, his face sunkissed, his forehead, the tip of his nose, like the sun shone down on Mingi alone. Maybe it did, your irresistible boyfriend with a heart of gold, you wouldn’t be surprised if the sun woke up every morning hoping just to see him. The sound was music to your ears, you leaned your head on his shoulder, hands holding onto the small, laminated menu.
You flexed your thighs, I missed you guys.
The answering squeezes to your skin told you they missed you just as much.
“Today went by too fast,” San shook his head of messy black hair to the left of Mingi, it was a rare sight to see him unkempt. San was always dressed to the nines, hair gelled back, face chiseled, the face of masculinity. Seeing him with pink cheeks and an affectionate grin made your heart swarm with affection, you loved it most when the group left business behind and lived in the moment instead. “I need to have you guys here more often.”
“Invite us then,” Wooyoung teased back, still shirtless, sitting on the end of the table across from Yunho. Skin bronzed and glowing, he reminded you of some kind of Greek God, like him and summer had a contract. “We’ll come when you call.”
Jongho leaned forward, his flower-patterned shirt unbuttoned and dragging along the picnic table, his dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, sunglasses still sitting over his eyes. “Says the one who lives three states away.”
Wooyoung laughs, leaning forward, looking to his right to see Jongho almost at the other end of the table, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“At the risk of being fired, I’m sure,” Hongjoong smirks, the only person to his right Seonghwa, who held the end of the table. The pair still had their matching hats on, sunglasses resting above the brim, the only two whose faces were unaffected by the sun’s rays. Maybe you should all invest in hats, the sun was inescapable in Haos.
Yunho leans in, eyes dancing between each speaker, “Are you gonna get fired?”
Wooyoung shakes his head with his face scrunched like his company wouldn’t dream of firing him. Sana’s dark eyebrows raised, glossed lips falling in a line like he wasn’t telling the whole truth, the sight made a snort fall from your nose. When Wooyoung noticed, he nudged her side, scoffing, “You know they won’t fire me, they need me. You’re supposed to be on my side, Sana.”
You lean back with a laugh, hand covering your mouth, so stupid it was funny. You missed him so much, and if the possibility of Wooyoung getting fired was any indication, you think he missed you guys just as much.
“We should take pictures after dinner, at sunset on the beach,” Tzuyu chimes in, sitting in her crochet cover up between Yeosang and Jongin at the end of the table on your side. “No dressing up, just in our bathing suits with some drinks, candid style.”
Jihyo and Sana agree, nodding, sitting next to each other like two peas in a pod. “We should get couples shots, too,” Jihyo adds, dark hair waved by saltwater covering her bikini top, “Jongho and I haven’t taken a proper picture together in so long.”
“Woo and I need pictures for our holiday cards,” Sana agrees, nodding, already leaning into Jihyo. Wooyoung, with his sunglasses pushing his hair off his face, silently groans from beside her. You giggle at his face, stealing Sana’s attention.
Before she could open her mouth, San leaned forward, talking across you and Mingi, “Yun, we need to get you a girlfriend so you can be involved, too.”
You stop laughing immediately like San had reached over and stolen the smile from your face. You blink as Yunho’s hand jumps from your thigh, your body stiffening, trying not to let your eyes widen, to show surprise or discomfort on your face while a sharp pang of something sour hits your chest.
“We could ask a random girl from the bar to pretend,” Wooyoung snickers, eyes locked with San’s.
Jongho laughs, a high-pitched, amused sound, “We’d have to pry him away from those two first.”
Yours and Mingi’s attention jumps to Jongho, who eyes you both, mischief in his eyes. Yeosang, with his elbow on the table, props his chin on his cheek, staring down at Yunho, asks, “What happened to that girl from Woo’s going away party?”
Yunho shakes his head of chocolate locks inflated by humidity. Voice clear like he wasn’t bothered at all, he answers, “Just didn’t work out.”
Your body is on fire. So badly you wanted to tell them all to stop speaking about the past, to not bring up a future that isn’t centered around yourself and Mingi. Yunho is yours.
“Are you okay?” You pick your head up to Jihyo who was eyeing you carefully, eyes pointed, jaw set. “You look sunburnt.”
You shake your head, forcing an easy smile on your face, “I’m fine, probably am sunburnt.”
“How? Yunho put sunscreen on you, like, four times,” San wore a slimy grin, the table erupting with laughter.
“It was once,” you counter, eyes narrowed, tone biting. “And I can’t reach my back.”
“You’re quiet, Mingi,” Wooyoung interrupts, and Mingi’s eyes pick up, wide and doe-like.
“What do you want me to say?” He asks, brows furrowing, head tilting like Wooyoung said something stupid. You smile. Yunho puts his hand back on your thigh.
Like a saving grace, the waiter finally approaches your table, breaking your conversation to ask for your order. Yunho orders for you, then for Mingi, exactly what both of you would have chosen if you’d ordered for yourself. You felt eyes on you as Yunho finished, but you didn’t dare meet a single person’s stare. You didn’t want to know what their eyes would tell you.
You didn’t have to guess, not when San spoke after the waiter left your table, his voice a blanket over one end of the table to the other. “Am I crazy? Is anyone else seeing this, or is it just me?”
The three of your heads pick up in a line. The table is quiet, the only thing you can hear is the reggae music, soft from the speakers, dissipating into the summer breeze. Low, far but close, it melts into the sound of waves, offsetting how thick the tension had become at the table.
San’s face bulges out, bewildered, “No one’s gonna say anything?” He turns to you three and your heart falls into your ass. “Are you three together?” You swallow the bile in your throat. “Are you fucking?”
“No,” Yunho’s answer comes before your lips could part. The word is rigid, a wall, a finality. You look at Mingi who’s already looking at Yunho, his eyes so big, so round, you can hear your heartbeat over the music, the breeze, the waves. No.
Yunho even laughs a little. “Come on, are you serious?”
You glance at Jihyo who’s already looking at you like she knows everything. Like your skin was transparent, and she could see your heart cracking beneath your ribs all over again.
“You’ve been joined at the hip all day,” Wooyoung’s grin is feline, like he wasn’t done prying for information. “Can’t blame our minds for going there, can you?”
You and Mingi don’t smile, don’t laugh. You can’t pretend. Yunho takes a sip of his drink, “They’ve been together for years, you know we’re close. It’s weird that your mind would go there.”
Weird. It’s weird. He’s not yours at all. You feel like ice under the summer sun, melting too quickly, soon you’ll be a puddle darkening the sand beneath you if you don’t remove yourself from the situation. You refuse to let any of them see you upset. You hate that a part of you doesn’t want them to know if Yunho doesn’t want them to know.
You look at Mingi, I’m going to the bathroom.
He nods once, eyes glossy, you wish you could bring him with you. Pushing yourself up with your palms on the table, you swing a leg over the bench and don’t look back, don’t listen to a single word as you nearly run to the bathroom. Your skin is on fire, there’s no air conditioning in the small two-stall bathroom with baby blue walls, it’s suffocating.
You stand at the sink, throwing cold water on your face, two hands hooked around the white ceramic to force yourself to calm the fuck down. What was last night for? What did you talk about all of that shit for? What did you fuck for? Now you feel fucking stupid for today, for thinking you’d pass a test he was never proctoring. It all felt redundant. Pointless.
The door swings open, you don’t move. “Are you okay?”
Jihyo, smiling softly, apologetically. Your lips tighten, you refuse to let tears fall. You refuse to repeat what happened last time. You should have expected this.
“All good,” you force a smile. “I think I got too much sun today.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” she leans in the middle of the two sinks, shoulder pressed to the wall between the mirrors, one manicured hand on your forearm. “Did he lie?”
You huff amusement, it lacks any semblance of warmth. “Yeah, he lied.”
“Fucking asshole,” she crosses her arms. “What’s with him and commitment? That day I came over, I knew it, I knew what he was there for.”
All you can do is shake your head, “I don’t know, Ji.”
“How long has it been?”
You hum before answering. “A month? Five weeks maybe?”
“Damn,” she shakes her head. “The way he looks at you… I don’t understand him. I don’t understand the denial.”
You give her another weak smile. “Don’t tell the others. Please.”
“I won’t,” she scrunches her lips to one side. “You still have Mingi, though. And Mingi has you.”
“Thank god for that, right?” Your smile is only half-fake now, moving away from the sink, pressing your back against one of the stalls. “Although I think he’ll be more upset than I am.”
“He was holding it together out there,” Jihyo shifts to lean her butt against the sink, head tilting. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the start?”
You shrug, lips flat. “It was instinctive, we hadn’t talked about it yet. After you left that day he freaked out, we fought, we only worked that situation out last night.”
“He said you’d tell people?”
You tilt your head, showing your bottom row of teeth, “Not exactly. More so that we’re more comfortable being in a gray area now, our feelings out on the table, working towards something. We weren’t expecting anyone to call us on it.”
“They’re such assholes for airing out your business,” she pushes herself off the sink, taking two steps toward you to throw her arms over your shoulders, tucking you into a hug. “I’m sorry, you guys will figure it out.”
You let your eyes close, sucking as much comfort as you can from the hug, “I hope so. Thanks, Ji.”
She pulls away to cup your cheeks, “You know you can talk to me, right? Let me in, I can be a shoulder to cry on.”
You nod, fingers wrapping around her wrists, “I will.”
The rest of dinner was damn near silent. Yunho was in your head with apologies, none you answered, you didn’t want to talk to him or hear him out. Mingi answered once or twice, short responses, it was clear the two of you were hurt and needed time to reset your feelings again. You didn’t want to argue, or settle your feelings in the bedroom again, you’d done that already. It clearly didn’t work. Pictures on the beach were swift, yours and Mingi’s were all fake smiles and silence, watching the live photos in your camera roll made your skin crawl. You don’t think you or Mingi said five words between dinner and bedtime, until it was the three of you in your bedroom again.
Yunho actually had the audacity to pull down the comforter. You stopped him with your palm splayed flat on the right side of the mattress, voice monotonous and bored, but your eyes shot daggers. “You can sleep downstairs.”
His brows raised, “Are you serious?”
You settled deeper beneath the comforter, Mingi still throwing on clothes after his shower. You hold his eye, “It’s weird that you’d try sleeping in our bed.”
His hands fall to his sides, all emotion wiped from his face. “I just said that so they would leave us alone.”
“You could have been honest,” you answer simply. “You could have laughed it off. You could have said anything other than it being weird, Yunho.”
His face softens, “It wasn’t my intention to–”
“You don’t seem to have any intentions,” you cut him off. “You can sleep downstairs, like you were planning to last night.”
Lips bending, a slow nod, without another word he turns around, grabs a pillow and a blanket, and leaves your bedroom. Mingi, watching from the dresser, finally crawls into bed after Yunho closes the door behind him.
You open your arms, welcoming him into your chest, fingers immediately scratching into his hair, pressing a kiss to his clean scalp that still smelled like seasalt, “You okay baby?”
“Tired,” he mumbles into your chest, voice deep and heavy. "Don't wanna do it anymore. Too confusing.”
“You wanna be done?” You pause, fingers stalling in his hair. He looks up at you, his eyes big and round, sad. You frown, one hand sliding down to graze his cheek. “We can be done.”
“I don’t want to,” his voice is so small, just barely above a whisper. “But I think it’s obvious we’ll end up being his secret forever. I don’t want to be a secret, I want him to be proud.”
“Me too,” you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m proud you’re my boyfriend, y’know.”
He smiles, “And I’m proud you’re my girlfriend.”
“That’s all we need,” you kiss him again, parting your lips for him, sinking farther down the mattress until he can roll on top of you, elbows bracketing your head. Throwing your arms around his neck, your legs over his thighs, you break the kiss to say, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he smiles into the kiss, body pressing into yours, and it’s the easy reminder that you’ll always have him, no matter what, that eases weight off your chest.
It’s easy to pretend everything is okay when you lean into the reminder that Mingi will be by your side forever. It’s stuck with you since seven in the morning, when San abruptly woke up the house cracking a wooden spoon against a pot, screaming activities day over and over. He popped into your room with a wide grin, asked where Yunho was, and left your room as confused as he entered it.
Jet skiing, mini-golf, a barbecue, ending the night at Rêve, a reputable bar in town. San insisted that your last day should be filled with the best things Haos has to offer. Of course he left out the part that jet skiing was at the yacht club he was a member of, and that he owned shares at Rêve, making him part-owner; never humble until he was supposed to be, you wished he told you to be on your best behavior today.
Not that your group would ever be on their best behavior. Wooyoung was already drinking by the time you went downstairs for breakfast, he made mimosas for everyone, you had two. The first you chugged after Yunho went upstairs immediately after you entered the kitchen, the second you chugged when he came back downstairs, shirtless, swim trunks painted onto his thighs. If you were going to be forced into activities with him all day, you should make it easier for yourself.
White buildings with terracotta roofing, there were too many buildings to count, a winding paved asphalt driveway up to the front where men in suits stood under a white awning, one approaching as San put his Bronco in park parallel to the main doors. It had valet.
The yacht club was beautiful, massive, every nook and cranny of the main building screamed prestigious. All patrons you encountered were dressed up, some in sports wear for the golf course you could only assume is somewhere on the grounds, in long summer dresses or business-style suits, everyone seemed important. Everyone looked proper. Part of you felt out of place, with your group half-dressed in bathing suits and cover-ups like you were headed to the beach, but it didn’t last long when you got outside to where everything was docked.
Your mouth didn’t close once from the time you walked inside the heavy red doors all the way out to where he kept his jet skis docked, next to his boat, The Kai. Not a far walk, you realized, you assumed meant he was also a very important person here, too, the size of his boat only aided in the confirmation.
He owned four jet skis, which meant four couples could ride at a time, leaving two couples and a Yunho out. Luckily he had a cooler fully stocked on his boat, one he and Jongin brought out to the dock while the first wave of people went out on the water. On the dock were Mingi, Jihyo, Jongho, and Yunho– of course, naturally. You sipped on a seltzer, sitting between Mingi and Jihyo, your feet dangling over the side, one arm behind you holding you up.
Yunho sat on the other side of Jongho at the end and as much as you were grateful after you and Mingi threw in your white towels last night, it hurt that he wasn’t even trying. He didn’t even look at you, not once today, you think. At least when you got out on the water you and Mingi were smiling and laughing, he let you drive the jet ski, which he quickly regretted when he realized the watercraft turned you into an adrenaline junkie.
Mini-golf was ten minutes from the yacht club, half of your group in San’s Bronco, the other half in Jongin’s Jeep. A standalone establishment that had a small course on the outside, an ice cream shop on the inside, and a small kitchen for bar-type food. The alcoholic bar itself was small, connected to the kitchen-half of the indoor space, but it didn’t stop your friend group from ordering a round of shots, cocktails, and beers for all. Even better, the tab at the bar plus admission for minigolf was all paid for by San. His treat, he said, and who were you to argue after seeing The Kai?
There were too many of you for one singular game, but the consensus amongst the group was that you wanted to play together. So instead of splitting your group in half to play two separate games, you played in pairs, and once again you and Mingi were thrown into a triplet, this one you didn’t agree to so easily. One shot down and a cocktail in your palm, no one could feel the tension between the three of you, the energy should be light at mini-golf. You mentally decide you’ll be civil. Maybe you’ll even try being friends.
Mingi and Yunho both had beers in their hands, neither jumping for joy at the blue club you chose, it wasn’t the longest, and the two men you shared with were a hell of a lot taller than you. You stifled a laugh as Mingi uncomfortably hunched over the club as he lined up his feet, awkwardly swinging the club to hit the blue ball.
“This game is fucked,” he stands up straight when the ball bounces off the back wall, missing the hole completely. The first hole is the easiest.
You snort a laugh where you stand, watching his face morph into frustration, his brows knitting and lips parting like he couldn’t believe he missed. “You’ll get it next time,” you encourage, taking a sip of your cocktail.
Hongjoong goes up next, he makes it in with one swing. Tzuyu goes next, she makes it in with one swing. Sana next, she makes it in with one swing.
“This is fucking rigged,” Mingi curses, taking another sip from his beer. Yunho laughs under his breath as your arm comes up to rub his back encouragingly.
“Don’t worry,” you coo. “Yunho and I will win for you.”
“I can play golf,” Mingi argues defensively. “The club is just short. Yunho won’t be able to do it, either.”
Jongho goes next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s brows raise like he’s seconds away from losing his shit. Jongin next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s fuck is loud enough for the children at hole thirteen to hear.
“Don’t get us kicked out of minigolf, Min,” Wooyoung is still laughing, a hand clutching his belly. “We know you’re competitive, it’s just a kid’s game.”
“I know it’s a kid’s game,” Mingi bites, all in one breath, barely looking at the younger man as he says it. Your face is full of amusement when Wooyoung turns to you, brows raised in surprise.
“Don’t ask me,” you shake your head. “I’m not his keeper. When it comes to games, he’s on his own.”
It’s your turn again, the blue ball alone on the green. You’ve played enough minigolf in your life for this to be muscle memory– childhood games at arcades, random birthday parties from school friends over the years. But it’s been a long, long time since you were a kid, too long since you’ve come close to a minigolf course. Your first swing, just a foot away from the hole, you miss. The group laughs and you roll your eyes, waving a hand, “I’m just warming up!”
“Oh, I’m sure!” Sana’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and your lips tighten. Feeling hotter now, you line up your feet, the club with the ball, and swing.
You fucking miss.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you huff. “Someone hand me my drink, I need to be drunker if I’m gonna suck.”
Yunho’s laughing as he hands you your cocktail and you suck down half of it before lining your feet up all over again. You hit the ball this time, but it’s fueled by your rage, it bounces off the brick siding and onto the green of hole four right next door to hole one. You straighten, hand covering your mouth, eyes widening as your ball hits someone else’s ball that was currently playing hole four.
“I’m sorry!” You call as the young kid, definitely not a day over the age of eight, throws the baby blue ball back onto the faded putting green. It’s as if it was in slow motion, how he threw the ball in a perfect arc for it to land flawlessly in the hole without as much as a singular bounce. You whip around to your friend group, eyes wide, “Does that count? Can that count? Jongin, count it.”
Your friend group sounds like a clan of hyenas, loud cackles, obnoxious laughter breaking out across twelve people because of how ridiculous that unfolded.
“Are all three of you competitive?” Seonghwa asks, genuine, voice light and kind.
You shrug as you walk off the green, “I’ve never really played sports, I don’t know.” Skipping over to Jongin who was keeping score, you brush up close to his sculpted arm, tone candy sweet, “So? Are we counting it or what?”
He makes a shh motion, one finger raised, smiling behind the purse of his lips. Your hand forms into a fist and you tuck it into your body with success, “Yes, hole in two, baby.”
Mingi and Yunho are snickering when you return to them, but it’s Yunho who mocks you, “Not competitive, my ass.”
“Hey,” you point a finger at him. “You can’t make fun of me, I’m pissed at you. I said I was gonna make up for Mingi’s shit swing.”
“Yours was even worse!” Mingi’s voice is high-pitched, still defensive. You’re all giggles when you lean into him, pressing a hand to his cheek to pull him down for a kiss. Beer and home, he tastes like half of you.
You feel Yunho’s eyes, but you don’t stop, you don’t do anything to make him think it’s for him. Even if there’s the evil part of you that hopes he wants to rip his skin off his body, that he’s so enraged he sees red, you hope he doesn’t act on it. You hope he doesn’t act on anything ever again.
At hole two, Yunho surprises you both with how efficiently he makes the ball into the hole with only one swing, yours and Mingi’s jaws falling to the concrete. Yunho exudes everything smug on his return.
Smirk on his lips, rolling his shoulders, he says, “What? Like it’s hard?”
Your laugh is verbal disbelief, Mingi immediately quips, “Do not quote Legally Blonde right now.”
Yunho’s giggle is proud, his grin wide, his shoulders doing a little shake in celebration. So fucking cute you could rip out all your hair, you dig your head into Mingi’s chest to smell him, to rid yourself of feelings towards Yunho. Your forehead meets your boyfriend’s skin with a groan, “I need another drink.”
The third hole goes by quickly, efficiently, Mingi excited he got a hole in one, deservedly so. At hole four, you’re up again after a cocktail and a half, at least you’re at the starting line this time. You stare at the blue ball sitting on the green, eyes squinted, whispering, “Do not embarrass me. Okay?”
“Are you talking to the ball?” San asks, humor laced in his tone. “I don’t think it’s gonna answer, girl.”
“I’m giving it a pep talk!” You snap your head to respond and then stare at the ball once more. You line up your feet, then the club with the ball, and swing.
Your fuck is louder than Mingi’s was when you miss. You wave apologetically to the family of four that shoots daggers at you from across the course.
“I can’t watch this,” Yeosang shakes his head as he approaches you. “You're legitimately killing me.”
Your face heats with embarrassment as he stalks up to you, determination in the crease of his brow. You pull all your hair to one side as he stands behind you, arms wrapping around you, hands dwarfing yours over the handle of the club. “Hold like this,” he explains, then kicks one foot between yours, spreading your legs farther, your knees bending. “Stand like that.”
Yunho, tensing beside Mingi, snaps his head to the side to get Mingi’s attention. “Hello?”
Mingi’s brows furrow when Yunho’s shoulder bumps him, his feet staggering. “What?”
“Look,” Yunho says, like it’s absurd Mingi just asked what. He can see the flex of Yeosang’s arms as he stretches them over your shoulders, the veins swimming along his forearms while his hands clasp over yours. It makes his jaw tick, his heartbeat quicken— you’re not Yeosang’s to touch.
“He’s showing her how to play,” Mingi says casually, taking another sip of his beer, leaning towards Yunho like he was watching a sitcom instead of his girlfriend getting felt up by another man.
Yunho’s head tilts, dumbfounded and semi-enraged that Mingi doesn’t feel a shred of the possession he does, his voice a harsh whisper, “Yeosang has had a thing for her since… since forever.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Mingi’s brows raise as he turns to his best friend, a disbelieving chuckle falling from his lips. “No he hasn’t. Tzuyu is right there.”
Yeosang kicks your feet apart and Yunho’s body jerks at the action. His foot inches forward, fingers grasping his beer a little harder like he was ready to pounce. Instead, he grits his teeth, “Have you ever watched Yeosang interact with her? Like ever? He’s basically told you to your face he thinks she’s sexy.”
“She is sexy,” Mingi shrugs, rolling his neck nonchalantly. “If I’m not pissed off then you shouldn’t be either. She’s not yours, she’s mine.”
Yunho’s neck snaps, meeting Mingi’s dead-serious stare. Stunned into silence, he shuts his mouth, drinks his beer, and lets it be. Just when Yunho thought they were getting somewhere, that maybe you wouldn’t be awkward all day, he’s surprised that Mingi’s the one who put him in his place. It’s worse when you return smiling, overflowing with excitement, asking Mingi if he saw your hole-in-one three times before throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him. He feels sick, palms sweating, you weren’t doing this to get a rise out of him, you were leaning on each other because he was the one who fucked up. Again.
The rest of mini-golf goes by in a blur. He doesn’t speak much, he doesn’t have anything to say, his mind is on a roll, trying to come up with any sort of plan to fix this. He needs to get you two alone, he needs to apologize, he needs to say something to get the two of you to stop looking at him like you don’t care about him because that in itself is so fucking terrifying he can feel his goddamn throat close another inch every time he notices.
The drive home is quiet, wind in Yunho’s ears, he can’t even hear the soft music playing through the speakers, he didn’t care to. Out of the corner of his eye he watches you sink into Mingi in San’s backseat with the sun laying over your lap like a blanket, your eyes closed beneath your sunglasses like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like nothing was bothering you at all.
He’s never let himself learn just how terrifying it could be to love someone who didn’t want him. Two people who didn’t fucking want him.
“Who’s ready to BBQ?” Wooyoung shouts from the passenger seat of Jongin’s Jeep, emphasizing the acronym, basically hanging halfway over the door while grinning wide enough to showcase each and every one of his bone-colored teeth. You’d just pulled into San’s driveway, finally back at home to barbecue, to fill your stomachs with a good, hearty meal before you were back on the streets for Haos’ nightlife.
Everyone piled out of the cars quickly, heading inside just for the men to immediately split off into the kitchen to start prepping the grill. You watch as they gather around the kitchen island, shouting orders and ideas about cooking of all things until Tzuyu bumps your hip with her own at the base of the staircase, stealing your attention.
Pulling her hair tie from her bun, she lets it fall behind her in loose waves, scratching her fingers through her roots, “I guess the man-grill thing is genetic. Or built-in, like a default setting.”
“There’s nine of them,” you whisper. “How many does it take to man a grill?”
“Nope, I’m out!” Hongjoong raises both his palms beside his head in defeat while he retreats from the kitchen. “You’re all insane, I’m showering and napping. Call me when dinner’s ready.”
“Eight,” you correct yourself, a grin growing on your cheeks, and Tzuyu laughs from beside you.
Jihyo, her bag over her shoulder, enters the living room with Sana at her side, the two approaching you and Tzuyu with grins on their faces. Sana does a little shake of her hips, grin reading excitement, “Who’s ready to fuck up the club?”
“It’s a bar, I think,” Jihyo laughs, “but it’ll be nice for us all to go out and let loose.”
“We’ve done nothing but let loose all weekend,” Tzuyu furrows her brows.
“No.” you shake your head once. “We have not.”
“I brought face masks,” Sana’s fingertips dance together mischievously. “We should pre-game getting ready while they grill and shit.”
Out on the deck, Mingi stood over the grill in front of the railing, a pair of tongs in his hand while he flipped pieces of meat and seafood on the black, steel grates. The speaker inside played music through the screen door, everyone mindlessly humming and singing along while they set the table, chatter and laughter flowing through the chilly summer breeze that ruffled his hair.
So many years these guys have been his friends, so many years Yunho has been his friend, he can’t believe it’s all gone to complete shit. This was his worst fear coming true, the lingering fear when all of this began, that he’d cross a line and lose Yunho. Yeah, they’d all still be friends, but his friendship with Yunho has always been different. Deeper. He can’t believe he’s losing it, right in front of his eyes.
He felt alive again that first night in Haos, back to normalcy, you three felt closer than before, just for it to be ruined all over again the next day. Each and every time he met Yunho’s eye today, he hated that those three words still sat in the hinge of his jaw, the back of his throat, begging to be spoken. He could tell it was the same for you, where your eyelids sat over your glazed pupils, a certain twinkle to them as you stared up at Yunho even if you tried to hide it. He knows what the words look like forming on your lips, how you tighten your smile to stop them from spilling out, he knows you like the back of his hand.
He can’t believe you both love him and you can’t have him.
“Almost done?” Mingi’s head snapped up to Yunho on his right side, his head peeking over Mingi’s shoulder, the heat of Yunho hotter than the grill. Speak of the devil.
Mingi nods, eyes sliding over his face. Big, brown eyes with clean cut brows giving them structure, cheekbones high and sculpted, lips a pretty, pale pink heart. He wishes there was no one else on the deck, he wants nothing more than to lean forward and press his lips to Yunho’s, he hates that his feelings still linger.
Yunho’s head tilts when Mingi lacks a response, amused by Mingi’s eyes locked in on his lips. “What’cha thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Mingi mumbles, bringing his eyes back to the grill.
Yunho sighs, “Mingi–”
“Don’t,” Mingi keeps his eyes locked on the burning fire beneath the grates. “I don’t want to hear it, it’s all bullshit.”
It feels like a blow to Yunho’s ribs. “None of what I want to say is bullshit, Mingi. You know me.”
“I thought I knew you,” Mingi mutters, purposely keeping his voice low. “I thought I knew how you felt about us, I thought we were getting somewhere, that even though you’re scared, you wouldn’t pretend you didn’t feel anything.”
Yunho frowns, his head dropping. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Min.”
“But you did,” Mingi meets his eye. “And you knew you did in the moment. But you didn’t go back on what you said, you didn’t change your answer. You let me sit there looking stupid because I–”
Mingi cuts himself off and Yunho’s brows furrow for a second, “Because you what?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Yunho urges. “Everything you say matters.”
“Not to you,” Mingi turns sideways, his jaw locked, his brows flat. “Don’t apologize, don’t say whatever pretty words you think are gonna make it better. It was embarrassing, Yunho, sitting there while everyone laughed at the idea of us being together because you said it was weird.”
Yunho’s fingers rub at his eyes, exasperated, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it, it was word vomit, I got scared–”
“Yunho,” Mingi’s voice is so clear, so even Yunho stands a little straighter. “I know how you feel already. You’re twenty-eight years old, you’re old enough to know words have meaning. You know how we feel about you. We’re done here.”
Yunho’s throat is so tight he doesn’t think he could take a breath even if he tried. There’s no oxygen in the air, nothing to feed his lungs, Mingi’s words feel so concrete all he can do is turn around and walk away. Inside, toward the bathroom, he’s walking without vision, without a brain, he locks the door behind him and finally heaves a strained, verbal breath.
We’re done here.
You’re done with him. Mingi’s done with him. His back presses against the door, facing the ceiling, willing his tears to stay below the surface. He’s right. He’s grown enough to know that his fear is childish, that it’s time to settle down, he shouldn’t be afraid of what his friends think, what anyone thinks. He shouldn’t be afraid of commitment with you, he knows you won’t hurt him in his soul, he knows how you feel about him. He feels the same way toward you, if not deeper, he feels so fucking much toward you that it terrifies him.
He’s running out of time to get over it.
If this was a month ago he’d be seeing this situation as an out, he’d be thinking that this was for the best, but now his heart feels shriveled down to a husk in his chest. Hollow, like the best parts of him were gone, missing the people who made him feel whole, gave him purpose outside of sex. Outside of the role he gave himself.
When he goes back out onto the deck, the sun’s at its last moments of visibility over the horizon, the girls had made it back down, too. You sat next to Mingi at the corner, Jihyo and Jongho across from you, Tzuyu and Yeosang beside you. Yunho sits beside Hongjoong who’s next to Seonghwa, and the couple look at him with sad eyes.
Seonghwa leans across Hongjoong, his voice low. “What’d you do?”
Yunho sighs, lips flattening. He doesn’t question how Seonghwa read the situation. “You saw what I did. At dinner yesterday.”
Hongjoong makes a face, one that says you’re fucked. “That was a tough watch.”
“I know,” Yunho answers, tone flat. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think we’re able to give you advice, this is out of our area of expertise,” Seonghwa looks apologetic, voice soft as he leans across Hongjoong to lay his palm flat over Yunho’s hand, encouraging. “You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you.”
Yunho stares at him for a second and for the first time in thirty minutes he can’t actively hear his own heartbeat. He gives Seonghwa a soft, grateful smile, pulling his hands back in his lap, thinking.
You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you.
He lets his eyes graze over the meal, a feast is what it was, far too much food for thirteen people to consume and feel good after digesting, but no one seemed to care. Music flowed from inside, loud yet calming, a backtrack to conversation, banter, laughter, not anything Yunho could hear over the sound of his pounding heart.
San made a toast to the last night in Haos, a small speech of how happy he was to maintain the friendships that were vital to him. Appreciation for all of you, gratitude for years of friendship, relationships he wouldn’t trade for the world, he even choked up talking about how close he holds everyone to his heart. Not often does he get emotional, but the way the table stood, clapped, clinked their glasses and took turns squeezing him tight, maybe he’ll be more inclined.
Maybe the three of you weren’t the only ones who are having an emotional weekend.
By the time dinner was over, all thirteen of you stuffed full, the impending night out seemed more like a chore than anything. Yunho’s stretched out on the couch half-asleep until he hears Wooyoung complain to San that the girls were getting ready in his room, perking his ears enough for him to wake the hell up and trudge up two flights of steps to his room, your room, to see Mingi passed out in the bed.
A white tee, briefs on his legs, he lays on his side, both hands pressed together beneath one cheek, lips parted as he snores softly. Yunho smiles to himself, staring from the doorway, leaned up against the wooden frame, he looks so peaceful. So pretty, Yunho wanted so badly to crawl onto the bed and press a kiss to his lips, he knows better. Instead he creeps across the hardwood, gathering his things for a shower and leaves.
The hot water gives him clarity. Maybe it’d be easier to confess tonight with a little liquid confidence, it’d give him an easier flow, he could say everything he needs to say without the stupid fucking wall that’s embedded in him biting his tongue. He loves you, he loves you both so much he feels incomplete, the world feels tilted off its axis without you two by his side. One week without you was hell, one day watching you with each other was like living in purgatory, the in-between, where he can look but can’t touch, he thinks that might be worse.
Mingi’s still asleep while he starts getting ready, he only wakes up when Yunho’s buttoning up his shirt. He sits up slowly, wiping at his eyes, “What time is it?”
“After nine, I think,” Yunho responds, staring at Mingi through the mirror. His hair looks untouched, eyes half-lidded, he licks his lips three times just to get moisture in his mouth again. Yunho can’t fight his smile.
“Fuck,” Mingi’s top lip lifts. “You’re dressing up?”
Yunho grins, “I’m only in a button-up and pants.”
“Yeah, but they’re your good pants,” Mingi argues, “the ones that make your ass look good.” His eyes widen after he says it, like his own words woke him up the rest of the way, but he doesn’t correct himself.
Yunho looks over his shoulder like he’ll be able to see his own ass. “You think my ass looks good in these?”
Mingi stretches, a verbal noise of tightness leaving his chest as his arms go over his head, his shirt lifting at the hem, Yunho’s eyes snap to the exposed bit of skin like a moth to a flame. Mingi lays flat on the bed, arms straight out beside him, legs spread. “You know it does, don’t play coy.”
Yunho laughs a little as he buttons the last one, leaving the top three undone, one silver cross pendant sitting on his chest. He turns slowly, hands planted on the dresser behind him, taking a breath to build confidence since there was zero liquor swimming in his blood, “I regret what I said at dinner yesterday.”
Mingi sits up on his elbows, sleep still evident in his glossy eyes, his tone remains flat, knowing. “Do you?”
Yunho nods, lips scrunching to one side. “I don’t like how we are right now.”
Mingi sits up all the way, “I don’t like it either.”
Yunho’s voice is breathy, a little shaky as he asks, “Can I fix it?”
“Last time we were fixing things it took one day for it to get fucked up again,” Mingi lifts himself off the bed, running a hand through his hair. He stops right before Yunho, facing him, “You’re the only one who needs to figure your shit out, Yunho.”
Yunho watches as Mingi heads for the door, calling behind him. “What if I figured it out already?”
Mingi holds his stare from the door. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Stuck in time, Yunho stares, his tongue caught between his teeth, his heart in his throat. Mingi laughs a little, disappointment clear as he shakes his head. Before heading to the bathroom, he mutters, “Thought so.”
Yunho curses under his breath when he hears the bathroom door close, the shower turning on. He doesn’t wait around for Mingi’s return, he goes back downstairs, most of the guys already showered, dressed, ready to go. He opens a beer with the same tightness in his jaw, frustrated that Mingi just gave him an opportunity to speak and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say a word.
There’s music playing from the TV in the living room, something pop from a decade ago, he doesn’t have it in him to listen, or to the conversation happening around the kitchen island. San, Jongin, Wooyoung, Jongho, it’s all muted mumbling in his ringing ears, he feels pathetic.
It’s worse when Mingi comes downstairs and doesn’t even look at him. He joins the conversation seamlessly, the laughter grows, they’re talking louder than the music, it makes Yunho feel not only on the outside of his relationship, but on the outside of everything. Isolated because he can’t speak up, he can’t say how he feels, he’s trapped within his own mind, trapped beneath his feelings. He cracks another beer.
He doesn’t think it can get any worse until you walk down the stairs. On the couch now, he gets a front-row view of the black dress painted onto your body, tied around your neck, stiletto heels with straps that twist up your calves like vines. Mingi meets you at the base, picking you up off the bottom stair with one arm hooked around your body, lips pressed to yours, when he sets you down carefully he says something in your ear that makes your head fall back with laughter.
Emotion feels like bile rising in his throat. He’s jealous, but it’s different now; what was once frustrating was now driving, the words sit heavy on his tongue. You two look like you’re matching, dark clothes, hair styled, jewelry silver and offsetting one another, he looks down at his outfit and it’s almost like fate that he’s matching, too.
He looks back up to meet your eye across the room, what was supposed to be a glance lingers.
Yunho gives you the smallest of smiles, You look beautiful.
Your chin tilts upwards ever so slightly, I know, Mingi just told me.
Ouch. He leans into the backrest, I can’t tell you, too?
The corner of your lips tug upward. Thanks.
He watches as Mingi’s hand slithers around your waist. I need to talk to you.
You sink into Mingi’s hold, your back pressed against his chest, What if I don’t want to hear it?
Yunho’s jaw clenches. You do.
Sana shrieks from the staircase as soon as she sees Mingi’s lips pressed to the skin below your ear, “Do not fuck in that dress, I just bought it!”
You pull your attention away from him and he feels like grieving. You don’t give it to him again until you’ve had tequila poured into your mouth from the bottle, all thirteen of you in the kitchen fully dressed, pouring liquor like it’s water and calling it a pre-game. Outside, splitting two Escalades, rides San ordered for your group to take to Rêve across town, Yunho opted to sit in the back with you and Mingi, you scowled as soon as it left his lips. He smiles, because at least you care enough to frown.
San was immediately greeted upon approaching the upscale bar, stepping out of the Escalade to be met with two men wearing suits like it was regular, casual. Inside it was red everything, from leather booths to velvet barstools to the curtain that hung closed upon the stage; walls full of vintage framed photography, the architecture a brown so deep it appeared burgundy, dimly lit shaded lamps on tables, some traded for candles, the bar was drenched in an amber hue. It was definitely moody, a brand created off of atmosphere, it felt cozy as much as it felt expensive.
It was calmly crowded, plenty of people filling up the tables in the center of the room, a crowd before the stage that had waiters with trays between them. You spotted martini glasses, short glasses of whiskey poured neat, women in daring dresses and doused in jewels, men in suits who blew clouds of swirling smoke in the air from their cigars. All thirteen of you looked appropriate, expensive– but not old money expensive like some of the patrons you observed. You wondered about the history of Haos, about San, how deep his pockets really ran.
You couldn’t wonder for long, though, with how the group was directed past the stage to a steel door at the back of the building that seemed… insignificant. Like it’d bring you outside or to a storage room, not to a long, dark hallway that hummed louder and louder with each step he took.
Bass thumped beneath your shoes, the group quietly following the man in black like this was normal, no one questioned anything only because San followed with confidence, chest puffed out, shoulders back. Surprise wasn’t the word for what was behind the twin steel door at the end of the hallway, it opened to flashes of blue and purple, music so loud it made you jump where you stood.
Women on platforms half-dressed, swaying their hips to the beat of the song, bottle girls with buckets of ice and handles of liquor atop their heads parting through the crowd like it was the Red Sea, patrons in clothing that matched yours exactly. The room was filled with people in your age group dancing to the music at the center of the backdoor club, the walls filled with enclosed sections you assumed were VIP, all by velvet roped attached to silver poles.
“So? Are you guys surprised?” San asks from the head of the group, his smirk turned to a wide, excited grin, which everyone replied with a monotonous, confused yes. San laughed, leaning into Jongin, “We wanted to surprise you, you guys looked so confused at the front, like we were gonna smoke cigars and watch Cabaret.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” Jongho shrugs, and most of the group nod their agreement, including you. You didn’t care where you ended up tonight as long as there was liquor for you to guzzle.
“This is better, no?” San raises his brows as he begins walking you toward the back wall, what you assume was your VIP section. “Music we know, people our age, it’s been a long time since we’ve all gone clubbing together.”
Tzuyu, in a red dress painted on her body, adds, “Because all the clubs at home suck.”
“Not the ones here,” San quips like he was waiting for that reply, entering the section backlit by blue lights cool enough to be white. “They love me here.”
“You own it,” Mingi snorts, “they have to love you.”
“I partially own it,” San raises a finger as he steps into the open booth, the table at the center already full of ice and champagne. “There’s a difference.”
Jongin starts pouring champagne into flutes, “Should we make another toast?”
“We don’t need to get all teary-eyed again,” Sana smiles, softly instead of the nasty smirk she usually wore with her rebuttals. This was appreciation. “We have our makeup done, Sannie made us emotional enough back at the house.”
“It’s not every day that you get to tell your friends how much you love them,” San holds the flute between his fingers, brows wiggling.
Yeosang laughs, “It could be, you just choose not to.”
You can feel the music in your blood, the dance floor calling to you, excitement in the bounce of your knee. You only spend fifteen minutes in your section, finishing a singular cocktail before Tzuyu’s pulling you out to the dance floor, after getting ready together in Sana’s room it was like all four of you had taken a breath of fresh air.
The dance floor was already swarming with sweaty bodies loosened up by liquor. Yours not quite there yet, you’re in a fit of giggles as the girls twirl you into the crowd, you stay on the outside of Jihyo and Sana who fall into rhythm, backs pressed to one another as they sway their hips, laughing as they twist around. You and Tzuyu are watching, smiling, giggling until the two pull you into their circle, forcing your hips into the same rhythm as theirs.
“I’m out of practice!” You yell over the music, and both Sana and Jihyo shake their heads, like they wouldn’t accept the excuse.
Jihyo slaps a hand on your shoulder, “You fuck, you know how to use your hips!”
Head tipping back with another laugh, you let her pull you into her, your hips so close they might as well be touching. You follow her rhythm, using a fuck-worthy roll of your hips as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth while you focus.
“You’re thinking too much,” Sana’s behind you, hands on your hips. “You need another drink, damn.”
Your lips tighten in a line as you look up at Jihyo again, embarrassed. She laughs in response, “She means you’ll feel looser with a little liquor in you.”
Sana stops the bottle girl holding a tray of shots, her screech for help loud as she tries to balance four between her fingers, the three of you snatch them from her hands like candy. Shooting it back in one swallow, you push a breath through your lips like it’d rid the sting from your throat, your face scrunching up at the taste. Vodka– bitter, painful.
But it helps, it’s not long until your arms lay over Jihyo’s shoulders, your back pressed to Sana’s as she moves to the same rhythm as you, Tzuyu swaying her body in front of Sana. You can feel the music in your blood now, your body thumping with the bass, bones turning fluid with each shake of your hips. You’re unable to feel the warmth spreading through your skin, your senses already overwhelmed by the atmosphere, you’re too busy watching Jihyo’s half-clothed body grinding herself against you.
Eventually Tzuyu heads to the bar for more drinks, handing you another shot before a glass full of something and tequila, you don’t realize how quickly you’re sipping it while Tzuyu is bent over in front of you, her ass pressed to your crotch. You can hear your obnoxious laughter over the music when Sana lands a few smacks to her ass, Jihyo pulling out her phone to record it, the four of you erupting in a fit of drunken giggles and snorts, bodies light, brains somewhere else entirely, not once did you remember there’s an entire club of people around you.
It’s been so long. House parties, clubs, bars, your friend group used to be outside on a weekly basis, you missed it. You missed them, dancing with them, completely carefree, like you’re twenty-three again. It was nostalgic in a visceral way, like maybe you were twenty-three again, sharing platonic kisses with your friends on the dance floor, waiting for your boyfriend to come scoop you up and fuck you in the bathroom because neither of you could wait.
You don’t realize you’re drunk until Mingi joins you on the dance floor. When you see his face, structured and beautiful, strands of hair hanging over his glossy eyes, a smile on his plump lips, you feel the rush of warmth from your chest to your toes. His pants cling to his legs like they’re tailored to him, strong thighs filling out the fabric, his unbuttoned shirt is showing enough skin for you to lick down his chest. You want to, the urge sitting at the forefront of your mind, you lick your lips as he approaches.
“I was wondering where you went,” Mingi’s loud over the music, you could get drunk off the rasp to his voice alone. You throw your hands over his shoulders, swaying your hips to a rhythm he meets you at immediately, his hands on your waist.
“I’ve been here,” you tilt your head, dazed. “We were dancing, the girls are so funny.”
Mingi snorts, “You’re drunk.”
“Nooo,” you shake your head, the word exaggerated, playful. “Just tipsy. Did I tell you how handsome you look?” Mingi looks amused, brows raising, you don’t wait for his answer. “You look sofuckingsexy.” His belly laugh makes your smile grow. “I’m serious, Min. I want you, like now.”
He leans in to attach your lips, a quick peck, he fights your strength to keep him close. “Now? Like were twenty-three again? Don’t wanna wait until we get home so I can fuck you in our bed?”
A small noise slips through your lips at the thought. “Too far away, we just got here.”
“We got here over an hour ago,” his hands curl around your waist, gripping you harder. “You’ve been out here the whole time, baby.”
It feels like you’ve been dancing for ten minutes. “Whatever,” you whine, pressing your front against his. “Kiss me already.”
He obliges, smiling before he presses his lips to yours, hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling your body flush to his. You gasp into his lips, he tastes like whiskey, bitter but sweet, addicting. Your fingers find his hair as his tongue parts your lips, tasting you, groaning into you, your hands fall from his neck to feel him.
“Baby,” he says with caution, you swallow the warning, tilting your head to kiss him harder. He squeezes your hips as your hands fall from his hair to his chest, palms splayed over his pecs down to his abdomen, tongue dancing with his.
“I just wanna kiss,” you mumble into his mouth, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as you take his bottom lip between your teeth, biting softly. He groans, chasing your lips again, his hips pressing into you, he’s so easy it makes your core clench.
He parts your legs with one of his own, pressing into you, making you gasp a sound too lewd for where you are. Entirely bare beneath your dress, the pressure combined with the texture of his pants makes a breathy moan fall past your lips, one he drinks up with his own. Your fingers curl into his shirt tighter, hips bucking into him, one of his hands sliding up to the side of your neck.
“Can feel her on me,” his voice is deeper, almost a growl as he says the words into your mouth. “Knew you weren’t wearing panties.”
One of your heeled feet leaves the floor to grind against him at a better angle, head falling forward until your forehead lands against his, “Shit, feels good.”
He reaches behind you, fingers finding the hem of your dress, holding it taut over your ass. You moan again as your core drags over his thigh, forehead falling to his shoulder, the rest of the club melting away. He curses under his breath, “Baby, hold on, you gotta–”
You whimper into his shirt, eyes screwing shut, tequila and Mingi was a cocktail for impulsivity. Him, the smell of him in your nose, his body pressed to yours, he made you so fucking cockdrunk without even giving you an inch, without even touching you. The pleasure’s overwhelming, you needed more, pressure building steadily, you didn’t care where you were, who saw.
Yunho can’t believe what he’s seeing. Curiosity getting the better of him, he should have known not to follow Mingi out to the dance floor to find you. But he was growing antsy at the table, listening to the bullshit conversation everyone was having when all he wanted to do was kiss Mingi across the table. Sitting back against the couch with his knees spread, beer in his hand, lips wet and pink and plump, Yunho was stirring in impatience. He’s hungry, he wants to touch him, to kiss him, wants him on his knees between his legs, he wants to tell him how much he loves him with his lips wrapped around his cock. He stared with his chin in his palm, elbow pressed to his knee, his foot tapping against the floor, the liquor made him restless.
At least he waited a few seconds before following Mingi, just to find the two of you at the center of the dance floor, surrounded by bodies and eyes while you grinded your hips against his fucking thigh like you were the only people out here. Mingi’s holding your dress over your ass, your hands in his shirt, leg hooked around his body, he stared until he understood the rhythm you were moving at, watching how you twitched like you were about to fucking cum.
He was seeing red. In his mind you were both still his, and you were letting all of these random fucking people see you like this? Seeing what’s his? He was moving before he could think about it, pressing himself up against your back, hands on your waist to shield you from everyone who could be watching. His voice comes out rough, harsh, “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your hips still like your blood was still victim to his command. Head tilting backward, you stare at him through wet lashes, lips parting, his name leaves your mouth in a soft gasp. Eyes hazy, glossed over, fuck, all his rage dissipates into the humidity of the club, just from one look at you. Disheveled, you didn’t have a frown on your face, your brows weren’t tied together, so fucking beautiful flushed with arousal he can feel it in his chest.
He looks at Mingi who’s equally as fucked out, cheeks red, eyes glossed over, he stares at Yunho like he wants to devour him, just like Yunho was staring at him in their section. His cock twitches in his pants, his heart twists, it’s been one fucking day and he misses you like he hasn’t had you in months.
He can’t take it anymore. He can’t do this anymore.
He isn’t thinking when he leans forward, sandwiching you between himself and Mingi as his fingers grab his cheeks, there’s no patience in the way Yunho kisses him, no softness, it’s all hunger and relief and driven by every single thought he’s had today. He says each one with each lick into Mingi’s mouth, he hopes he can feel it, the guilt, the fear, the ease he feels just by tasting the whiskey on his tongue.
“Oh my god,” he hears you whisper, it goes one ear and out the other as Mingi groans into his mouth, it goes straight to his cock. He feels you slip from between them as Mingi’s hands find his hair, his hands slide to Mingi’s neck, their chests pressed together like they couldn’t be close enough.
“I love you,” Yunho breaks the kiss only to say the three words into his mouth and he moans. Between kisses, he holds him close, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I fucking love you.”
“They’re watching,” you’re tugging on his arm, panic ebbed in your tone. “Yun, they’re watching you. They can see you.”
He pulls away from Mingi to turn to you, your eyes wide with fear, lips parted, eyes bouncing back and forth between Yunho and what he can only assume is all of your friends. He doesn’t care. There’s no shame, there’s no denial, there’s nothing inside him that could stop him from grabbing you by the waist, throwing the other in your hair, and pressing his lips to yours. He breaks it only to murmur, “Let them see.”
You’re stiff for just a second before melting into him, his kisses softer than those with Mingi, more controlled, like kissing Mingi took the edge off his impulse. “I love you,” he whispers into your mouth. “I don’t give a fuck if they see me kissing you, you’re mine.”
You hook your leg over his thigh, palms on his cheeks, relief flooding you. You tilt your head to the side, smirking, “You couldn’t have said that yesterday?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop speaking,” your fingers tighten in his hair. “Your mouth gets you in trouble. Take us home.”
Your friend group watches Yunho guide you both through the club with wide eyes and parted lips, you don’t spare them a glance as you and Mingi trail behind Yunho like dogs to their owner. The Escalades are still parked out front, a few words from Yunho to the driver and he’s opening the door to the backseat for you and Mingi, ushering you inside.
You stole Yunho’s mouth the entire drive, Mingi settling for his neck, the skin on his chest, more with every button he ripped apart. You didn’t speak, you didn’t need to, you’d said everything on the dance floor, specifics could come later. The only thing left was consummation, which was the only thing on your mind as you nearly sprinted through the front door, almost tripping on your feet on the climb upstairs.
“Careful,” Yunho said from behind you when you’d taken two steps at a time, but he couldn’t hold in his laughter, amused at your impatience. You ignored him, forgoing an answer to instead steal his lips once more when you reached the top of the steps.
His hands found your hips, tongue pushing through your lips, you felt Mingi’s palms a steady wait on top of Yunho’s as he backed you into your room, then closed the door behind you. You broke away to untie your dress behind your neck, just for Mingi to trade places with you, stealing Yunho’s mouth.
“Bed,” you said into the air, and watched as they tripped over each other, stepping in each other’s line of direction as they backed closer, closer, and closer to the bed. Mingi fell backwards, Yunho’s hands flying for his belt.
You kissed your boyfriend, who hummed when your lips met his. “Tequila.”
“Tastes good, right?” You smile into the kiss, dress riding up your thighs, body bent over completely to keep your mouth on his.
You can hear Mingi’s pants hit the floor, grabbing your attention. Yunho has his shirt off, Mingi’s briefs discarded. Yunho’s eyes, always cool and collected, are wide, crazed; sparkling with the moonlight that makes a puddle of white at the balcony door, casting the room in a hue of midnight.
Reality settles, and it’s heavy. Drunk you may be, but not drunk enough to not be wondering what’s going through his mind. “Hey,” you offer. His eyes meet yours, charcoal, swirling with moonlight, not quite steady. Your lips curve, “I love you.”
His bare shoulders settle, ease washing over him. He leans over Mingi’s legs, two hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you deeply, speaking into your mouth, “I love you, too.”
“Holy shit,” you mumble into his mouth, making him giggle right back. He giggled.
He loves you. He fucking loves you.
Mingi reaches for your legs, pulling one over his chest, you’re absent-minded as Yunho keeps his tongue tangled with yours. He pushes your dress up over your hips, holding it up over your waist, and pulls you down to meet his awaiting tongue.
You gasp out a moan as Mingi groans, bare hips bucking against Yunho who was still leaning over him. Yunho leans back, eyes darkening as he takes in the sight, your hips already rolling against Mingi’s tongue.
“Fuck,” Yunho sighs, grabbing his length through his pants, his grip tight like he was pacing his own pleasure. Like seeing you with Mingi might’ve very well brought him closer than he should have been.
Mingi’s arms hook around your thighs, tongue poking out to let your hips rock against it, allowing you to set your own pace, to use him however you want. You waste no time setting a brutal pace, whimpering as his flexed tongue rolls over your clit, as your hips rock back onto his nose. Fingers curling into your skin, searing where they held you, no doubt leaving oval shapes behind, the sting only makes you grind against him harder.
Yunho’s fingers find his button, his zipper, his eyes zeroed in on the sight before him like he couldn’t rip his eyes away if he tried. Indents of strain dimple the space above his brows, just a slight furrow, his hand finds his length again over his briefs, running his flat palm over his hard cock, a moan tumbling off his tongue.
Your eyes flare. “G’na cum just like that? Watching?”
Yunho’s lips part. “Could, if I wanted to.”
You find the hem of your dress at your waist, pulling the thin fabric over your head in one quick motion. Still rocking your hips, abdomen flexed, breasts falling at your chest, Yunho groans.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. You hiss when Mingi’s nose catches on your entrance. Yunho’s eyes sink down to where Mingi’s tongue swallows your folds, how it blankets over your core, swiping through, spit sliding down the sides of his mouth. His hand picks up speed over his briefs, hips bucking into his own hand, chest rising and falling heavily, “I might.”
You lean forward, holding Yunho’s eye, moaning as Mingi’s tongue curls inside you. You take Mingi’s length in one hand, the other pressed on his chest, and Mingi’s hips jerk into your hand immediately, a sharp grunt vibrating your thighs.
Mingi’s knees spread, hips bucking off the bed, feet finding the edge of the bed, legs lifting just to spread wider. You keep your eyes on Yunho, voice a husky whisper, “Join.”
As if you were a siren, his body pulls him forward, his hand leaving his cotton-covered cock just to wrap around Mingi’s, his hand fitting perfectly right above yours. Mingi’s palms wrapped around your thighs keep your hips moving as you and Yunho pump his length, one-handed, your eyes never once leaving each other.
“Fuck him,” you nearly whisper, your voice still husky, coated in arousal. “Push his legs up to his chest and fuck him. I have his mouth.”
Yunho gasps, and it would have been silent if you weren’t so close. His face twinges, a jerk of a reaction, like he wasn’t used to someone giving him orders. But his hands find Mingi’s knees, the underside of them, pushing them upward. He leans toward you, taking your lips in his, and as his tongue pushes into your mouth you know it’s claiming. Steadying. Reminding you who he is, who he is to you.
Yunho’s hand disappears between Mingi’s legs, earning a shattered moan spat into your core, you smile through the sound that rips from your chest. Rocking your hips again, sitting up straight once more, Mingi’s fingers singe your thighs, each fingertip like iron soaked in fire.
Mingi’s heels find the bed, cock twitching against his abdomen, leaking all over the stretch of skin beneath his belly button. The skin of your thighs gathers between his fingers, but you rock yourself through it, the pain mixed with the pleasure better than any cocktail you’ve had tonight.
Your head tips back as Yunho preps him, listening to Mingi curse into your folds, whining and whimpering but giving your clit the most attention of all. “S’good, Mingi,” you moan out, reaching behind you to run your fingers through his hair, sounding utterly dazed. “Mm, I love you.”
You barely hear him say it back, his voice lagged, muffled by a mouth full of you, head no doubt fuzzy from Yunho knuckle deep in his ass. You bring your eyes back to the older man who’s focused, taking his time opening him up, prepping him for his cock that neither of you can ever really be prepped for.
“Makin’ a mess, Min,” Yunho comments, finally noticing the painting the younger man made on his own skin. Droplets of pre, ropes that dripped down his sides, Mingi moaned in response. Yunho pushes his legs up, you catch them, palms splayed over his knees, holding him spread.
Beautiful, watching Mingi suck in every single inch. Beautiful, watching Yunho fight every fucking instinct to cum as soon as he bottomed out. It ignited the fire in your gut like you were the one Yunho was splitting open; a harsh moan pushing past your lips, clit throbbing against Mingi’s unmoving tongue. At least he stuck it out, you thought as your hips bucked against him, grinding harshly against the muscle he wanted you to use for your own pleasure.
When Yunho started moving, when Mingi started moaning like nothing has ever felt this good in his life, you could feel it like a phantom limb; brows furrowing, moans growing in pitch, watching your boyfriend fuck your other boyfriend brought you right to the edge.
“Shit… shit,” you moaned, your fingers finding your nipples, pinching, twisting. Hips bucking rapidly, watching Yunho’s abdomen flex as his hips rolled into Mingi’s ass, you neared so close you could taste it. “Gonna cum, Yun, gonna c-cum–”
“Wait,” he ground out, his voice ragged and harsh like he was nearing the brink himself. It made your eyes dart to him, he always lasted, he’s never cum this quickly. Ever. His grin is lazy, his head tipped backward, sweat kissing his moonlight-kissed skin, he utters, “Been waiting– for this, t-to tell you how I feel.” His chin dips, eyes squeezing shut, “Fuck.”
You understood then, that his release was so much more.
“Let me cum,” you urged. “Let me, want to watch you.”
Yunho’s eyes met yours, and agreement shone in the subtle spark of white dancing in charcoal. He leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around your neck, tugging you toward him to crash your lips onto his, shoving his tongue into your mouth, tasting the orgasm that washed over you as soon as you met.
Mingi’s grip rocked you through it, a sob leaving your throat, lips unmoving against Yunho’s. Whispering into your mouth, he uttered, “I love you.”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t do anything but roll off Mingi’s face, the younger man gasping for a breath, reaching his arms upward for Yunho. Yunho’s hips didn’t falter as he leaned down, as he pushed Mingi up the bed, crawling onto it himself. Head in the pillows, utterly dazed, lovesick and spent, you watched Yunho take Mingi for everything he’s worth.
Mingi sobbed, hands in Yunho’s hair, muttering I love you over and over again like he couldn’t believe he could say it. Yunho’s hips snapped against his, responding every fucking time Mingi said it, not missing a single time it passed through his lips.
And it occurred to you then, that they were yours. Both of them, finally, for real this time, they were completely yours. So beautiful together, their bodies molding perfectly, lips touching, speaking, not kissing; Mingi’s hands in Yunho’s hair, Yunho cradling Mingi’s cheeks.
You didn’t feel the tears on your cheeks until Mingi spilled onto his stomach, blurry eyes darting to where it dribbled down his side. They didn’t notice until after Yunho emptied himself inside Mingi, when the smack of hips became a sound of slick movement, and their heads turned to yours.
Mingi’s face, fucked-out turned to concerned. Brows bent, lips pouting, he scrounged to sit up on his elbows, “What’s wrong?”
You shook your head, wiping under your eyes. “I just love you, both of you. That’s all.”
Yunho crawled over to you, a warm smile on his lips as he split your knees, placing a cupped palm on your cheek before he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Wiping your tears, he murmured, “I’m sorry for all the shit I put you through this weekend.”
You sniffed, “I’m just… still a little drunk, you don’t need to console me. I know you’re sorry.”
After cleaning himself up quickly, Mingi curled up to your other side, pressing his lips into your bicep. The two of them watched you like hawks, taking in every micro-expression on your face.
“I’m fine,” you reiterated with a small laugh. “I swear, I’m just emotional. It was an emotional weekend.”
Yunho’s face drooped with guilt. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together. I didn’t mean anything I said to you–”
Your palms found his cheeks, guiding him down, cutting him off by pressing your lips against his. “I know,” you whispered, eyes opening to look into his. “I know how you feel, I knew the whole time. I’m proud of you.”
His lips quivered. Your smile grows, “Now why are you getting emotional?”
“Because I’ve been searching for this for so fucking long,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Searching for you, both of you,” his eyes find Mingi, “in everyone.”
“Search is over,” Mingi rolls on his back, eyes playful, lips pinned up on one side. He looks at Yunho with barely a turn of his head, “Should we throw a party?”
Yunho snorts, pressing another kiss to your lips before throwing your leg over his body, collapsing on your other side. After a moment, he adds, “I’ve never felt more like myself than when I’m with you.”
Both yours and Mingi’s heads turn to him, listening. Yunho’s head angles toward you, but he doesn’t look as he continues, “I think it’s why I’ve never settled down. Nothing ever felt right, not until that first night with you both. I mean, after that, I never really left.”
“You tried,” you add with a grin.
Yunho looks at you just to roll his eyes. “It’s scary knowing the best thing that could ever happen to you is happening to you. I fucked it up before I even had the chance to fuck it up.”
“No you didn’t,” Mingi counters with a shake of his head. “You’re here, we’re here. Everything happened the way it was supposed to.”
Yunho’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you for letting me figure it out. For not abandoning me when I gave you every reason to.”
Before tears have the chance to fill your waterline again, you wrap yourself around him, literally climbing on top of him to attach yourself to him. Whispering into his neck, you say, “That’s what you do when you love someone.”
“And we love you very, very much,” Mingi adds, already cuddled up to Yunho’s side.
Yunho presses his lips to yours, a short, sweet kiss. Then turns to Mingi, pressing another short, sweet kiss to his lips. “And I love you both very, very much, too.”
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you distract your gamer boyfriend mid-match until he completely falls apart.
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 2.9k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, heavy overstimulation, crying, spit as lube, multiple orgasms in a row, semi-public (mic is on), handjob, blowjob, begging, yunho is a trembling & whimpering mess, cum swallowing, grinding, body convulsions, hypersensitivity.
you're sprawled across the bed, chin propped on your palm, watching the back of yunho's head with an expression that's slowly curdling from patience into something sharper.
he's been at it for three hours.
three hours of him hunched over his gaming chair, headset clamped over his ears, fingers dancing across his keyboard like you don't even exist in the same room. the occasional curse slips out — "oh, that's bullshit" — or a sharp laugh when one of his friends says something stupid; you can hear them through the back of yunho’s headset, tinny and distant, a whole world you've been locked out of since eight pm.
and it's almost eleven now.
you've tried everything; you brought him a snack an hour ago — you set it on his desk, let your fingers trail across his shoulders, but yunho only mumbled "thanks, baby," without even looking away from his damn monitor. you'd stood behind him for a solid minute, watching the back of his neck, the way his muscles shifted under his loose t-shirt.
nothing, not even a glance.
you tried sitting on the bed and just... existing, prettily so. you're in one of yunho’s hoodies and nothing else, legs bare, socks with cute little hearts on them. usually that's enough to make him drop everything, usually he'd be on you within seconds, all long limbs and eager hands.
but valorant has your boyfriend in a chokehold tonight, and frankly, you're tired of competing with a video game.
so you wait, you watch, and you plan.
yunho's got this thing he always does when he's focused — his tongue pokes out just slightly, wetting his lower lip, and his eyebrows pinch together. he's so so beautiful like this, all sharp concentration, but you want him beautiful in a different way; you want him wrecked.
you slide off the bed quietly, padding across the carpet until you're right behind his chair. he doesn't notice. of course he doesn't notice; his friends are yelling something about a rotate, and yunho's voice is all clipped efficiency:
"i'm anchoring, i'm anchoring, just push—"
you drop your hands onto his shoulders.
yunho startles, just a little.
"oh—hey, baby. one sec," his eyes never leave the screen.
you don't say anythin, you simply start kneading the tension out of his trapezius muscles, slowly and cautiously. yunho’s shoulders are tight as rocks under your palms, and you feel him exhale as your thumbs dig into a knot.
"that's nice," he murmurs. "feels good."
you lean down, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.
"yeah?"
yunho shivers; you feel it travel down his spine, but his hands keep moving on the keyboard, and his brown eyes stay fixed on that glowing rectangle of chaos.
you could cry from frustration, but instead, you get creative.
your hands slide down from yunho’s shoulders, over his chest, dragging slow across his pectorals; you can feel his heartbeat under your palm — steady, but picking up just a little.
your fingers find the hem of his t-shirt and slip underneath, skating across the warm skin of his stomach.
yunho's breath hitches.
"babe, i'm in the middle of—"
"i know," you say sweetly against his ear. "you're doing so so good, yun."
his stomach tenses under your touch.
you slowly trace the lines of his abdominals, feather-light, watching yunho’s grip tighten on his mouse. his character on screen does something jerky — misses a shot, probably, and one of his friends groans over comms.
"yunho, what the hell was that?"
"nothing," he says, voice slightly strained. "misclick."
you smile, and your hands drift lower, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his gray joggers; they're soft, slightly worn, and they hang low on his hips, and it’s so fucking hot—
"baby," his voice has a warning edge now, but it's shaky. "can this wait? we're in overtime."
you don't answer, you simply slip one of your hand under the waistband, palm flattening against his lower belly, fingers trailing through the fine hair below his navel.
yunho is already half-hard; you can feel it, the way his cock twitches against your questing fingers, the way his hips push forward just a little, involuntarily.
"oh," you breathe. "someone's distracted."
yunho's jaw clenches. his character is standing still in a corner of the map, and his teammates are yelling at him.
"yunho! move! they're pushing A!"
your boyfriend forces his hands to move. you watch his fingers fumble on the keyboard, and something hot curls low in your belly. he's trying so hard to focus. it's adorable.
your hand dips lower, wrapping around his half-hard length through his boxers. he's warm, already leaking a little, and you stroke him once — slow, measured, from base to tip.
yunho makes a sound. it's barely a whimper, swallowed down fast, but you hear it, and your body responds instantly, a rush of heat spreading through your core.
"shh," you whisper. "don't want your friends to hear, do you?"
he shakes his head, a tiny, frantic movement. his ears are now completely red; you can see the flush creeping down his neck, disappearing under his t-shirt collar, and he's gripping his mouse so hard his knuckles are white.
you pull your hand out of his joggers, just for a moment, and yunho makes a confused, almost wounded noise — but then you're hooking your fingers into the waistband and tugging down just enough to free him.
yunho’s cock springs up, flushed and already leaking, the tip shiny and pink. he's not fully hard yet but he's close, and god, you love this part, you love watching him get there.
you spit into your palm, and you hear yunho's breath catch as you wrap your hand around him again, slick and warm.
"oh," yunho breathes. "oh—fuck."
"language," you tease, but your voice is lower now, rougher.
you start stroking him properly, slow and firm, twisting your wrist at the top the way you know he likes, and yunho's hips naturally buck into your hand.
his character is still standing in that corner, and someone on his team is screaming about a spike.
"yunho, what the fuck are you doing?"
"i—" his voice cracks. "i got—someone's at the door, hold on—"
he's lying, and it's terrible. you're both aware of how terrible it is, but you don't call him out, you just keep stroking him, steady and unrelenting, and watch him fall apart in real time.
yunho’s thighs are trembling; you can feel it through the fabric of his joggers, the way his muscles keep twitching, fighting the urge to just shove back from the desk and drag you onto his lap. but he doesn't. he stays in his chair, hands still on keyboard and mouse, because he's stubborn and competitive and he really wanted to win this game.
well… too bad for him.
you speed up just a little, and your thumb swipes over yunho’s slit, spreading the slickness there, and your boyfriend makes a sound that's almost a sob.
"baby, please," he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear.
"please what?" you ask innocently, still stroking, still watching the way his stomach is clenching and unclenching.
yunho doesn't answer, because he can't.
one of his friends is yelling something about a flank, and yunho forces his character to move, running him across the map in a straight line that makes no tactical sense. he's not even trying anymore, he's just going through the motions, and you can feel how close he is — the way his cock is throbbing in your hand, the way his breath is coming in short, sharp pants.
"you're gonna cum," you murmur. "aren't you, baby?"
yunho nods frantically.
his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and his eyes are glassy, staring at the screen without really seeing it.
"not yet," you decide, and you let go.
yunho actually chokes; it was a desperate, punched-out sound that he tries to turn into a cough.
"what—why—"
"i want to taste you."
you don't wait for permission, you simply drop to your knees behind yunho’s chair, nudging his thighs apart with your shoulders, and then you're leaning in, your mouth closing over the head of your boyfriend’s cock. yunho tastes like salt and skin, that familiar warmth that makes your mouth water.
you swirl your tongue around the tip, lapping up the precum that's beaded just there, and yunho's whole body convulses.
"oh my god," he gasps. "oh my god, oh my god—"
"quiet," you remind him, pulling off just enough to speak. "mic."
yunho slaps a hand over his own mouth, and his pretty eyes are huge, panicked and desperate all at once, and you don't give him time to recover; you take him deeper, sinking down until he hits the back of your throat, and you hear the muffled sound of his scream behind his palm.
his hand flies off the keyboard. his character is running into a wall now, and one of his friends is saying something like:
"yunho, are you okay? your character's just—"
but yunho doesn't answer. hell, he can't.
you're bobbing your head now, setting a rhythm that's relentless, your hand wrapped around the base of his cock to stroke what your mouth can't reach. you're messy about it; spit is dripping down your chin, down his length, and you don't care at all. you just want to make him fall apart.
and he completely is.
yunho’s thighs are shaking violently, his hips jerking up into your mouth even though he's clearly trying to stay still. his hand is still clamped over his mouth, but the sounds are escaping anyway — whimpers, high and desperate, barely muffled by his palm. his other hand is still on his mouse, but he's not moving it; he's just gripping it like a lifeline, knuckles white, his whole arm trembling.
you pull off with a wet sound, just to watch him, just to see the way his chest is heaving, the way his eyes are screwed shut, tears clinging to his lashes.
"look at me," you say.
he does. yunho’s eyes open, and they're so blown out you can barely see the brown. his lips are wet and parted, and there's a tear already tracking down his cheek.
"so pretty," you tell him. "you're doing so well."
he shakes his head frantically.
"i can't—i'm gonna—"
"i know."
you take him back in your mouth before he can finish, and this time you don't hold back; you suck him like you mean it, hard and fast, your throat working around him, and you feel the exact moment he breaks.
yunho cums with a strangled cry, muffled by his own hand, his whole body arching up out of the chair. his release hits the back of your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow it down without stopping, without slowing, even as his hips are jerking and his thighs are trembling and he's making these broken, keening sounds that you know his friends can probably hear.
but you don't stop.
yunho's hand drops from his mouth.
"wait—wait, please, i just—"
but you keep going.
your tongue drags slow and flat over the head, and the noise yunho makes isn't human; it's a raw, punched-out gasp that cracks in the middle, and his whole body seizes — not just a flinch, but a real convulsion, spine bowing forward, shoulders hunching, his hips snapping back like he's trying to escape. but the chair traps him. there's nowhere to go.
"s’too much," yunho wheezes.
his hands fly down to your head, but his fingers don't push you, they just tangle in your hair, gripping hard, knuckles pressed against your scalp.
"s’too much, baby, please—"
you ignore him, and you suck gently, just the tip, and yunho’s thighs slam together around your ears; you have to push them apart again with your forearms, and you feel the muscles there jumping, spasming, completely out of his control.
"i can't—" his voice breaks into a real sob, wet and loud, and you hear one of his friends on the mic go quiet for a second.
"yunho? dude, you okay?"
you've taken him deeper again, and his hips are twitching in these short, jerky little thrusts that he's clearly not deciding to do. his body is just doing things now. his stomach keeps clenching and unclenching under his shirt, and you watch a bead of sweat roll down his temple, catching in his eyebrow.
you pull off to breathe, and the sound yunho makes is almost angry, and so so so desperate.
"please," he gets out. "please, it's so much—it's so much—"
your hand wraps around him again, loose and wet, and you don't move it, you just hold him, feel how hard he's trembling.
"i'm gonna die," yunho whispers, and his voice is tiny.
you laugh softly and lean back in, and this time you don't even take him all the way; you just mouth at the side of his shaft, lips dragging over the sensitive skin, and yunho jerks so hard his elbow knocks his water bottle off the desk. it hits the floor with a loud thunk, but neither of you look at it.
you can feel him softening a little, his body trying to retreat from the overstimulation, but you don't let up.
no, instead, you lick a slow stripe from the base of his cock to tip, and yunho’s breath hitches into a rhythm that's not breathing anymore — it's just gasping, open-mouthed and wet, his chest heaving like he's been running.
"one more," you say against his skin.
"i can't," he gets out, but his voice cracks on the vowel. "i can't, i literally cannot—"
you take him back in your mouth, just the head, and you suck.
it's not hard, it's almost gentle, but it's too much for him now, and you feel it the second his body gives up fighting. his whole frame goes rigid first — every muscle locked, his hands fisting in your hair hard enough to sting — and then he shatters.
it's not a normal orgasm; there's barely anything left, just a weak pulse, a few drops of fluid that you taste more than feel, but yunho’s body doesn't care.
he convulses like he's having a seizure, hips bucking off the chair, back arching so hard his shoulder blades press together. his mouth falls open in a silent scream, no air left to power it, and then the sound comes after — a raw, guttural cry that tears out of his throat and doesn't stop.
yunho’s legs kick out; one of his feet catches the desk leg, and the whole thing rattles.
his mouse skitters off the pad, his keyboard clacks as his chest slams into it, and he's still shaking, still convulsing, little aftershocks rippling through his thighs and his stomach and his hands, which are still twisted in your hair, holding on like you're the only solid thing in the room.
you stay where you are, mouth soft around his cock, but you’re not moving, you’re simply waiting.
it takes a long time for the spasms to slow down.
yunho’s breathing is all over the place — three short inhales, one long shuddering exhale, then nothing, then a gasp like he forgot how to breath. his long fingers loosen in your hair one by one, and his hand falls limp against the side of your face, palm sweaty and trembling.
you pull off slowly, carefully, and yunho’s whole body flinches at the loss of contact.
"hey," you whisper. "baby, you're okay."
he's not okay.
yunho’s is wrecked — tears and snot and spit all smeared together, his lips chapped and bitten raw. his eyes are half-closed, unfocused, the pupils still blown wide, and there's a wet patch on his shirt collar from where he's been crying.
you sit back on your heels and just look at him.
he's still shaking; little tremors, constant, running through his shoulders and his hands. yunho’s chest is hitching with these tiny, involuntary sobs that he doesn't seem to be aware of anymore. his character is dead on the screen — you notice distantly that his team lost, that the defeat screen is glowing on the monitor — but neither of you care.
finally, finally, you stand up.
you reach out and brush the damp hair off yunho’s forehead, and he flinches at your touch, too sensitive, still. but then he leans into it, just a little, his eyes flutter closed.
"baby," you say softly.
"you're mean," he whispers, his voice is completely destroyed, raw and cracked.
yunho just lies there, breathing in shaky hitches, while you stand up and grab a towel from the bathroom to clean him up. you're gentle this time, wiping away the mess, and he hisses when you brush against his cock but doesn't pull away.
you're tucking him back into his joggers when you hear it; a small, tinny voice from his headset.
"uh... yunho? dude, your mic is still on."
yunho's eyes snap open, and all the blood drains from his pretty face, then rushes back twice as fast, turning him crimson from his chest to his hairline.
"oh my god," he whispers.
you bite your lip to keep from laughing, you really do.
"oh my god," yunho says again, louder this time.
and you can hear his friends in the headset — someone is wheezing, someone else is saying; "i'm never letting him live this down," and the third person just keeps repeating "i heard everything, everything, i need therapy—"
yunho rips the headset off and throws it onto the desk, and he buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and you can't tell if he's crying or laughing or both.
"i'm never playing with them again," yunho says, muffled. "i'm moving to a new country. i'm changing my name."
you climb into his lap, ignoring his weak little protest, and wrap your arms around his neck. yunho still trembling, still so so so oversensitive, but he holds you back, completely burying his face in your shoulder.
"you lost your game," you say, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"i don't care about the fucking game."
you grin. "good. because i want round two."
yunho groans, but his hips twitch against yours, and you feel him start to stir again, and you know he's definitely going to let you ruin him all over again.
To my 25 - 35 year olds, you've reached the age where people around you are starting to give up on themselves because they think it's too late. Don't let that energy rub off on you. It's not too late.
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pairing﹢jeong yunho x fem!reader
genre﹢smut. headcanon format. dilf!yunho, mom's ex-boyfriend, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, yunho in his early 40s), original characters for narrative purposes (jeong minho), mirror sex, quickie, fingering, dirty talk, praises, slight overstimulation, possessive behavior, slight mean dom, pet names (sweetheart, baby, pretty girl), light aftercare.
synopsis﹢meeting your mother’s ex from college, who is charming and entirely off-limits, a man who exists firmly in the past of your family’s history. you find yourself questioning whether some connections are truly over… or simply waiting to be rediscovered under new lights.
✦ RETURN TO THE EVENT
DILF!YUNHO is your mom’s ex-boyfriend from her college years. the thought that this extremely attractive man could have been your father makes your eyes widen every time you look at him, and at the same time, you’re painfully grateful it never worked out.
DILF!YUNHO and her are friendly now, facebook friends like everyone else. still, he can’t help but think you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. maybe his son would like you, since you are the same age.
you part ways with DILF!YUNHO after a brief, polite conversation between him and your mom. turning your head one last time, curiosity tugging at your tail, and he’s already looking. realizing he’s been caught, he only offers a soft smile and a small wave. you don’t return it.
DILF!YUNHO, that you meet again at a random café while you’re out with your girlfriends. they’re all whispering about the handsome man sitting alone in the corner. when he gets up to leave, he stops by your table and greets you. the moment he walks away, you’re bombarded with questions. who is he? ‘say hi to your parents’. why does he know them? how do you explain that he almost became your father? so you settle for, “he’s a family friend.”
after that, you keep running into DILF!YUNHO everywhere. it almost feels like you’re stalking each other without meaning to. okay, maybe you stalked him a little, but just his facebook. you learn his birthday is march 23rd, divorced, into photography and dancing, what his son looks like, and that his name is minho. cute guy, but not really your type.
DILF!YUNHO appears like a phantom of the opera in old memories. one afternoon, you’re flipping through old photo albums with your mom. your baby pictures, others are her college stories, smiley faces frozen in time. then you stop at one photo. the girl in the middle is unmistakably your mom; she points at your godmother, some other names… and then she points to a man.
“oh, that’s yunho. remember the man we met a few weeks ago? yeah, that’s him.” you’ve never wanted to travel back in time so badly.
you ask your mother more about DILF!YUNHO, about what they were like together, how it all happened. she laughs softly, “aww, my little girl finally finds her mom’s life interesting?”
before settling down with your father, she lived like any other college student — parties, flirting, nothing serious. until yunho joined her friend group, and they just clicked. dated for two years, until he got an opportunity to study and work in a bigger city. long distance was a big no for both of them, so they ended things before resentment could grow.
DILF!YUNHO is everywhere in those pictures, and you're imagining what it would be like to be in your mom’s place: his hands on you, those lips pressed to your skin... then your mom's voice snaps you back.
“goodnight, sweetheart. i love you,” she calls softly before disappearing down the hallway to join your dad in bed. “put the albums back when you are ready,”
“love you too, mom… night.” the albums stay open longer than they should.
one moth later, your mom casually mentions that DILF!YUNHO reached out. just to catch up, she says, to invite your family over for dinner. apparently, he’s eager for you to meet his son, minho, the cute guy who's polite and easygoing.
what no one says out loud is that this isn’t really about minho at all. it’s an excuse for DILF!YUNHO to see you again without raising suspicion. and his son, poor boy, doesn’t mind if you don’t click romantically; being friends is more than fine with him.
the moment you arrive at DILF!YUNHO'S house a few days later, he can’t take his eyes off you. the short black dress you chose hugs your body perfectly, and the way his gaze lingers just a second too long doesn’t go unnoticed. not by you, and certainly not by him.
DILF!YUNHO greets you and your parents warmly and politely. then turns to you with a smile that's meant just for you, before his son steps in and steals the spotlight. dinner settles into easy conversation, light teasing from the parents filling the room. minho is kind, a little awkward in a charming way. you talk about games, laugh at the same dumb jokes. he’s a good guy, but you can already tell it’ll never be more than friendship, and he is on the same page.
but on the other hand yunho feels such fierce jealousy that you talk to his son, how sweetly you smile at him, and he hopes you won't actually like him.
DILF!YUNHO stays mostly by your parents’ side, reminiscing with your mom, laughing about college stories, catching your dad up on old memories. your mom chose well in the end, as for yunho… he seems to have chosen something too, and that’s you. their beautiful daughter, stealing glances when you think no one is looking. arent you adorable? not even trying to hide those lustful eyes.
when you ask minho where the bathroom is, you excuse yourself politely, throwing one last quick and intentional look over your shoulder. DILF!YUNHO suddenly gets an idea when your mom mentions old photo albums, and yunho stands almost immediately. “i might have them somewhere in my room,” he says casually, already moving. “it may take a few minutes. minho, keep them company, okay?”
DILF!YUNHO doesn’t go to look for albums; he goes looking for you.
DILF!YUNHO may be a wildcard, like your mom once told you, but above everything else, he is still a gentleman — or at least he tries to be. he doesn’t know you excused yourself just to breathe, but you can’t calm down. not when something in you has twisted the moment you stepped into his house, not when his presence feels impossible to ignore.
you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, guilt blooming across your face as you try to reason with your own reflection. this is wrong, you think, so wrong. turning on the tap, to let the cold water run, but you don’t splash your face, even if your makeup is waterproof. you inhale, exhale, thoughts keep circling back to him: his voice, hands, the way his eyes undress you with one glance.
a knock at the door pulls you out of your spiral. you open it halfway, ready to apologize, to whoever is there, but the words die in your throat when you see him. DILF!YUNHO stands there, calm on the surface, but fuming inside. before you can react, his hand gently grabs around your wrist, guiding you back inside. the door shuts behind you, your back pressed against the wood, the lock clicking softly.
his other hand lifts, “shh,” his finger brushes your lips to warn you, not scare you. “not a sound, alright, sweetheart?” a glance at his watch, then back to you. “we’ve got about four minutes… let’s not waste them.”
DILF!YUNHO sees how the shock never fully lands, because your body already understands what’s happening. a second later, your back is pressed against his chest, staring at yourselves in the mirror. big hands settle at your waist, slowly tracing down to the line over the fabric of your dress, and even if he wants to tease you, there’s no time for that.
“you’ve no idea…” he says quietly, almost to himself. his breath ghosts your ear as his fingers skim the hem of your dress, brushing your thigh in a way that makes your knees weak without ever going further. “...how much of a troublemaker you are.”
your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. you don’t move away, and don’t tell him to stop, because you want it, want him in ways that break any morals and laws.
DILF!YUNHO is the man you’ve imagined this happening with more times than you’ll ever admit. you were reckless: curious in a way you shouldn’t have been. finding that your mom still had his number, saving it to your phone when no one was looking. late-night calls followed, texting until sunrise, receiving money in your bank account, but it is now that the game finally starts.
he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet his eyes in the mirror. his presence is overwhelming, filling the space behind you, deep voice slips between your thoughts. “look at me,” he murmurs, not wanting to sound mean, maybe more commanding if anything. “don’t you dare look away.”
his other hand is sliding down under your dress, fingertips touching the already wet cotton panties, pressing and making you tremble, twisting your stomach. “we don’t have much time,” reminding you softly again. “so behave.”
DILF!YUNHO moves your panties aside and you close your eyes without the intention to, it's just how your body reacts, and he clicks his tongue in quiet disapproval. “ah-ah, eyes on me, sweetheart.” when you obey, his reflection watches you closely, satisfied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. he leans in, mouth near your ear, voice dropping even lower, as he whispers, “good girl.”
a whimper, a soft gasp wants to escape your lips, but he shushes it off by putting the hand that cupped your face over your mouth. "you watch and keep quiet, understand?" nodding your head as he removes his hand, that is now sliding down your throat, to your chest, down to where his other hand is working.
DILF!YUNHO fucks you with his slender fingers, dark eyes never leave yours in the mirror.
you don’t want anyone wondering why you look so pretty and flustered when walking back out, and thankfully, he hasn’t kissed you yet. he wants you right on the edge, but speaking of the devil and his doings: his free hand sliding a finger under your chin, turning you to him as he captures your lips in his in a sweet kiss. moaning into his mouth, a blissful sound that he devours.
DILF!YUNHO pumps into your soaked folds, so deep against your poor aching clit as he continues to kiss you, tongue pushing in and exploring, "you are so fuckin' wet," fingers curling around his forearm for balance, he hums against your lips since he’s pleased.
DILF!YUNHO wants the sound of your wetness to be acknowledged by you, and how he makes you feel — pure ecstasy if both of you can describe the feeling. you don’t know whether you’re more aware of the mirror, how close you are, or the fact that you’ll have to pretend nothing happened.
DILF!YUNHO warns you softly when your eyes flutter. “don’t hide from me, pretty girl. i want you to see it when you come.” it crashes through you in a way that steals the air from your lungs, head tipping back against his shoulder as the sound you’ve been holding finally slips free. the mirror showing every little thing you try to hide: the way your knees weaken, and how your grip the edge of the sink instead of his arms.
DILF!YUNHO likes that you’re trying to be quiet. your shoulders tense when the sensation builds too fast, too much, your reflection giving you away long before you could ever lie about it. “that’s it,” the older man is almost cruel in how gentle it sounds. “just like that, baby, you got this.”
pleasure rolling through you in waves you can’t control, legs trembling as you ride it out with your head tipped forward and your eyes squeezed shut, until he reminds you again. "eyes on me." you obey, watching yourself come undone while he stands completely aware of what he’s doing to you. it leaves you shaking, chest rising too fast, tears in your eyes.
DILF!YUNHO pulls away and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you without shame, praising you softly for how good you are. he checks his watch, amused. look at that — thirty seconds left. just enough time for you to fix yourself and walk back out like you weren’t completely undone by your mother’s ex.
he doesn’t stop praising, murmuring how well you did for him as he grabs a towel, kneels, and carefully wipes your legs clean. a lingering kiss pressed to your thigh, quiet and possessive, before he helps you back on your feet.
DILF!YUNHO sends you out first, waits until you’ve smoothed yourself back into place, until you look presentable enough to fool anyone who isn’t paying close attention. minutes later, he follows with the albums in hand, charming smile firmly back in place. no one notices the way you’re still catching your breath, no one except him.
when it’s time to leave, your parents thank him, already talking about the next get-together.
DILF!YUNHO would love to have another gathering with your family, but maybe next time you will come alone, and of course, he won’t need a clock to devour you for dinner.
EVENT ONLY TAGLIST (comment or dm to be added) :: @matchahintonagar @pineapple-burgah @jankayuri @zerefdragn33l @atz10248 @fixonjade @taytay-00 @kaleigh-2002 @spenceatiny18 @hellomynameis-jessica
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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